PICHARD 
ROSNY 


BY 

MAXWELL 
GRAY 


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I   MEANT  WHAT  I   SAID,"   ADDED   KATHLEEN. 

(See  page  162.) 


RICHARD  ROSNY 


BY 


MAXWELL   GRAY 

Author  of  The  Silence  of  Dean  Matt  land,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

D.    APPLETON   AND    COMPANY 
1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1903 
BY  D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 


Published  March,  1903 


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CONTENTS 


PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.— THE  JOY-BELLS 3 

II. — THE  LIGHTHOUSE 14 

III. — AN  OWN   BROTHER 27 

IV.— BELTON,  LAKING  &  Co 89 

V. — KITTY  MUSGBAVE 54 

VI. — MY  SON'S  WIFE .        .65 

VII. — ON  THE  DOWNS 77 

VIII. — THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE 87 

IX. — GERALD'S  APPEAL     . 96 

X. — THE  FANCY  BALL .        .  107 

XI. — UNDER  THE  PINES 120 

XII.— SUSPICION •»       .        .131 

XIII.—"  I  WILL  ARISE  " 143 

XIV. — THE   DARK   HOUR  BEFORE   THE  DAWN        ....  155 

PART  II 

XV. — THE   BURDEN   AND   HEAT   OF  THE   DAY        ....  169 

XVI. — A   FAMILY   AFFAIR 179 

XVII. — GATRELL'S  ADVICE 187 

XVIII. — THE  SLEEPING  PRINCESS 197 

XIX. — THE  JOY-BELLS  AGAIN 208 

XX. — THE  LITTLE  RIFT 220 

XXI.— KITTY  MAYNE 234 

XXII. — NANCY'S  ADVICE 247 

XXIII. — THE  MYSTERIOUS  SIREN  .                                               .  259 


2228463 


vi  RICHARD   ROSNY 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIV.— THE  RETREAT 272 

XXV. — A  SONATA  OF  BEETHOVEN'S 285 

XXVI. — RICHARD'S  BLINDNESS 298 

XXVII.— IN  THE  DUSK 309 

XXVIII. — THE  DECEMBER  ROSE 321 

XXIX.— THE  STORM 334 

XXX. — AT  THE   VILLAGE   CLUB 347 

XXXI. — SETH  BARTON'S  JAUNT 359 

XXXII. — IN  THE  GORGE 373 

XXXIII. — GATRELL'S  VISIT  TO  THE  HEAD  OFFICE     .        .        .  387 

XXXIV.— ON  ST.  ANN'S  PIER 401 

XXXV. — A   RIDE  IN  THE   FOG 415 

XXXVI.— A  SLOW  HORSE 428 

XXXVII.— NANCY'S  TRIUMPH 440 

XXXVIII. — A  CONFESSION 452 

XXXIX. — RICHARD  AND  GERALD 465 

XL. — THE  FIRST  STONE 469 

XLI. — AUTUMN  SUNSET                                                       .  493 


PART  I 


CHAPTER   I 

THE     JOY-BELLS 

THE  air  of  a  still  autumn  day  trembled  to  the  music 
of  church  bells,  joyously,  even  recklessly,  rung,  peal 
trembling  over  peal,  change  clashing  upon  change  in  a 
sweet,  mad  jangle,  a  very  tumult  of  exultation.  The 
joy-bells,  the  villagers  called  them. 

"Why  ;o#-bells?"  Richard  asked  with  a  choking 
sigh.  He  stood  at  the  gate  in  the  afternoon  sunshine, 
his  eyes  wet,  his  lips  pressed  together,  his  face  in  a 
frown,  his  feet  firmly  planted  and  chin  high.  "Why 
joy-bells,  Susan?" 

"For  to  bring  'em  joy,  to  be  sure,  my  dear.  It's  a 
happy  day  that  sees  a  happy  couple  wed.  If  a  woman 
ain't  happy  of  her  wedding-day,  you  may  depend  upon  it 
she  never  will  be.  Nor  a  man  neither,  for  matter  of 
that." 

The  boy's  face  expressed  frowning  dissent;  he 
choked  again  and  set  his  teeth  fiercely  in  his  quivering 
lip. 

"Joy!"  he  muttered  bitterly;  "Joy!  Wedding  if 
you  like,  not  joy.  A  nasty  row,  is  what  I  call  it.  There 
it  is  again;  bang — smash — the  whole  blessed  lot  coming 
down  together. ' '  He  dashed  his  sleeve  angrily  across  his 
eyes,  rushed  at  a  mole-heap  in  the  grass  and  stamped  it 
vigorously  down.  This  seemed  to  refresh  him,  and  with 
impatient  glances  at  the  open  house-door  he  walked  up 
and  down  leisurely  and  firmly,  with  the  tolerant  air  of 
one  prepared  to  bear  with  human  weakness. 

Still  the  mellow,  recurrent  bell-melody  irritated  and 
upset  him,  his  nerves  were  unable  to  bear  the  rushing 

8 


4  RICHARD   ROSNY 

clangor  that  seemed  to  sweep  from  the  sky,  poise  itself 
exquisitely  below,  recover  and  swing  back  again,  only  to 
come  tumbling  precipitately  down  once  more  by  some 
rapid  flight  of  golden  steps,  and  then  balance  backward 
and  forward,  forward  and  backward,  meeting  and 
mingling,  parting  and  clashing,  in  melodious  measure, 
but  always  touching  some  strange,  elusive  sweetness  that 
was  yet  sadness,  in  the  very  center  of  the  boy's  breast, 
till  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  split  asunder  with  the  wild, 
delicious  pain.  It  was  as  if  everybody  was  dead,  every- 
thing passing  away  to  nothingness,  yet  all  was  poignantly 
and  unbearably  beautiful. 

The  church-tower  was  visible,  square  and  massive, 
bare  to  bleakest  winds  and  gray  with  storm,  a  familiar 
friend,  a  daily  sight;  surely  it  rocked  in  the  tumult  of 
sound ;  all  was  changing  and  falling,  why  not  that  solid 
square  of  stone?  A  confused  hum  and  air  of  festivity 
was  everywhere;  in  gossiping  groups  along  the  road 
and  at  cottage  doors,  in  the  unfamiliar  aspect  of  the 
house,  every  room  turned  from  its  proper  use,  in  the 
voices  and  laughter  and  clink  of  glasses  coming  from 
open  windows,  in  servants  standing  about  at  the  gate,  in 
the  carriage  waiting,  with  white-favored  men,  and  horses 
with  clanking  bits  and  stamping  feet,  in  his  own  velvet 
suit,  stiff  broad  collar,  and  shiny,  uncomfortable  shoes. 

A  tall,  handsome  man  appeared  at  the  door,  nervous, 
preoccupied,  with  that  curious  air  of  being  out  of  place 
and  superfluous  to  the  ceremonial  that  marks  the  harm- 
less but  necessary  bridegroom.  He  saw  Richard  with 
unseeing  eyes  and  the  boy  scowled  back  at  him.  A 
clergyman  joined  him  and  let  off  some  mild  and  appro- 
priate jests,  at  which  he  smiled  faintly  while  consulting 
his  watch. 

"After  all,  Belton,  the  misfortune  is  not  irrepara- 
ble," the  vicar  said,  in  a  rich,  deep  voice,  while  Richard 
looked  appealingly  at  him ;  he  could  not  tell  why. 

"Not  irreparable?"  the  bridegroom  echoed.  "Any- 
thing wrong  in  the  license — or  register?" 


THE   JOY- BELLS  5 

"Not  unbearable,  I  should  say;  and  I  ought  to  know 
from  bitter  experience.  It's  the  common  lot,  you  know, 
the  common  lot.  Many  a  better  fellow  than  you  or  I  will 
ever  be  has  borne  it  without  a  murmur. ' ' 

"Man  was  made  to  mourn,"  the  best  man  sighed. 
"And  to  wait,"  he  added,  looking  gloomily  at  his 
watch. 

"Why  are  women  unlike  watches?  Because  they 
never  keep  time,  eh?" 

"It  isn't  true!"  Richard  shouted.  "She's  always 
in  time.  You  sha'n't  speak  against  her  behind  her 
back." 

"Hulloa!  young  man,  who  are  you  going  to  eat  up 
alive  now?  Nobody  speaks  against  your  mother,"  the 
best  man  said,  catching  the  boy  up  bodily. 

"But  she's  a  woman,"  Richard  maintained,  wrig- 
gling himself  free. 

"Bravo,"  said  the  bridegroom,  patting  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "Always  stand  up  for  your  mother.  Good- 
by,  old  fellow ;  we  shall  soon  be  back  again.  Look  after 
the  birds !  Ah !  here  she  comes  at  last. ' ' 

A  rustle  of  silken  skirts  and  a  soft  call  of  "Richie, 
Richie,  where  are  you?"  announced  the  bride,  to  make 
way  for  whom  the  men  stepped  aside,  while  Richard 
slowJy  and  doggedly  passed  in  between  them,  his  small 
heart  bursting  with  grief  and  his  pride  set  upon  not 
showing  it. 

"Well,  good-by,  mother;  pleasant  journey,"  he  said 
in  a  loud,  forced  voice,  before  being  caught  to  the  breast 
of  a  graceful,  delicate-featured  woman,  who  looked  over- 
young  to  be  the  mother  of  such  a  tall  lad,  and  kissed 
again  and  again  with  reiterated  good-bys,  to  all  of  which 
he  responded  only  by  a  clinging,  stifling  embrace  that 
sadly  crushed  the  bridal  finery. 

Mrs.  Belton  was  breathless  and  tearful  when  at  last 
she  freed  herself  with  some  whispered  entreaty  from  the 
fierce  clasp  of  the  strong  little  arms,  and  went  out  to  the 
waiting  husband  and  the  new  life,  followed  by  the  white- 


6  RICHARD   ROSNY 

faced,  sturdy  boy,  who  seemed  to  embody  all  her  past 
life  and  to  drag  her  back  to  it  by  the  heart-strings. 

"Oh,  Richie,"  she  sobbed,  pausing  at  the  carriage- 
door  for  one  more  embrace,  and  forgetting  all  she  had 
intended  to  say  at  parting,  "Richie!" 

But  he  only  looked  at  her  with  wide  bright  eyes,  full 
of  the  bewildered  reproach  of  a  wronged  animal's  gaze. 
The  look  cut  her  to  the  heart;  she  could  not  escape  it 
even  after  her  husband  had  handed  her  briskly,  almost 
lifting  her,  into  the  carriage,  and  they  had  driven  off; 
but  looked  back,  her  head  bent  from  the  window,  re- 
gardless of  rice-showers  and  cheering  bystanders  and 
dust,  until  the  carriage  whirled  round  a  bend  in  the 
road  and  the  slight  figure  and  wistful  eyes  were  lost  to 
her  sight,  and  left  with  the  old  life  that  vanished  for 
ever  on  the  marriage-day. 

When  the  carriage  turned  the  corner  and  nothing  was 
left  in  the  road  but  a  cloud  of  sun-gilded  dust,  thinning 
into  rings  and  spirals  and  passing  like  breath  on  glass, 
Richard  felt  as  if  the  sun  had  fallen  plumb  out  of  the 
sky.  His  heart  dropped  heavy  and  numb  in  his  breast 
as  he  stood,  deserted  and  desolate,  staring  into  the  va- 
cancy, where  his  mother's  face  had  been,  and  heedless  of 
everything  but  the  poignant  beauty  of  these  exulting  joy- 
bells.  Other  carriages  drove  up  and  went;  some  one  led 
him  into  the  hall,  where  many  faces  surrounded  him,  and 
he  grew  conscious  of  women's  voices  speaking  caressingly 
and  women's  eyes  beaming  pity,  and  suddenly  turned 
and  scurried  quickly  away,  like  a  startled  rabbit  to  its 
burrow. 

"Poor  little  fellow?"  echoed  the  vicar.  "Don't 
waste  pity  on  Richie,  dear  lady.  'Tis  a  good  day 's  work 
for  him.  He  is  nine  and  has  never  stirred  from  his 
mother's  apron-strings.  She  was  ruining  him,  making 
a  regular  girl  of  him.  She's  entirely  made  of  feelings 
and  they  are  all  poured  out  upon  poor  Richie.  The  boy 
cares  for  nothing  but  his  mother.  Belton  will  make  a 
man  of  him. ' ' 


THE   JOY- BELLS  7 

"A  heavy-hearted  man,  Mr.  Wrexham,  I  fear.  A 
stepfather  is — a  stepfather — a  good  many  steps  farther 
than  a  real  one." 

"Fallacy.  Prejudice.  Belton  is  a  good-hearted 
man.  He  is  attached  to  the  boy.  Richie  was  much  taken 
with  him,  till  this  little  jealousy  sprang  up,  when  he 
realized  that  they  were  going  off  and  leaving  him  be- 
hind. That  is  an  eye-opener  to  the  reality  of  life.  It 
had  to  come  sooner  or  later.  The  sooner  the  better.  If 
you  believe  me,  he  has  never  played  any  boy's  game  in 
his  life.  And  he  quotes  poetry ! ' ' 

' '  And  doesn  't  know  a  word  of  slang, ' '  added  the  best 
man,  impressively.  "Yet  he'll  tell  you  the  name  and 
genus  and  species  of  every  wild  flower  in  the  place,  and 
the  note  of  every  bird.  Shocking,  isn  't  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  come;  no  harm  in  botany  and  a  little  weak 
knowledge  of  natural  things.  But  he  can't  throw  a 
stone.  He's  not  ashamed  of  his  long  curls.  He  visits 
the  poor  and  reads  to  them,  and  carries  them  puddings 
and  soup." 

"Awful,"  exclaimed  the  best  man;  "very  likely  he 
knows  his  catechism  and  says  his  prayers.  Who  can 
tell?" 

"You  have  me  there,"  the  vicar  grumbled.  "But, 
honestly,  do  you  think  young  Rosny  is  being  brought  up 
as  a  manly  English  boy  should  be  ? " 

"Honestly,  Mr.  Wrexham,  I  think  a  boy  under  ten 
may  have  a  worse  education  than  the  constant  compan- 
ionship of  a  pure-minded  and  well-informed  woman. 
Masculine  discipline  won't  come  amiss  now.  But  he'll 
never  be  the  worse  for  these  first  years  of  close  compan- 
ionship and  tenderness.  They  will  leaven  all  his  life. 
It 's  precious  hard  boys  are  when  they  grow  to  manhood. 
I  never  yet  knew  a  man  with  too  much  heart — did  you, 
Mrs.  Musgrave?" 

"No,  nor  a  woman  either." 

"A  woman  is  different,"  the  vicar  conceded,  "but  a 
man  has  to  be  a  man.  Heart  for  the  woman,  head  for 


8  RICHARD   ROSNY 

the  man.  Gentleness  from  the  one,  strength  from  the 
other.  Iron  must  be  well  hammered  to  make  it  strong. ' ' 

"So  poor  Richie  is  to  be  hammered  by  a  step- 
father ?  I  wish  my  boys  were  half  as  manly,  Mr.  Wrex- 
ham.  Richard  takes  care  of  his  mother  and  is  thought- 
ful and  considerate.  My  little  scamps  racket  and  riot 
all  over  the  place  without  a  thought  for  anybody  or  any- 
thing but  their  games.  They  tolerate  'the  mater'  as  a 
necessary  evil  or  a  source  of  supply.  I  often  envy  Mrs. 
Rosny  her  companionable  little  son.  But  where  is 
Richie?  And  is  he  to  stay  here  all  alone?  I  hear  that 
his  aunt  leaves  Wimbury  to-night. ' ' 

"It  is  his  own  choice  to  stay  at  the  cottage.  A  boy 
should  have  no  choice.  He  might  stay  at  the  vicarage 
altogether,  but  he  only  consents  to  come  for  the  Latin 
lately  begun  with  me.  The  youngster  condescends  to 
like  Latin. ' ' 

' '  Really  ?  Ah !  there  is  our  carriage.  Good-by,  dear 
Mr.  Wrexham,  and  don't  hammer  Richie  more  than  'tis 
your  nature  to.  You  can  conscientiously  leave  that  to 
the  stepfather." 

"I  think  not,"  the  vicar  confided  later  to  the  best 
man.  ' '  Belton  is  easy-going  to  a  fault.  Far  more  likely 
to  spoil  the  brat. ' ' 

' '  Belton  was  never  hard  on  anybody, ' '  was  the  reply, 
"still — poor  little  beggar!" 

When  Richard  left  the  wedding  party  he  fled  through 
the  kitchen-garden,  over  the  wall,  where  peaches  hung 
tempting  in  the  sunshine,  across  the  meadow,  through 
the  copse,  straight  as  a  bird,  to  the  cliffs  by  the  sea,  mur- 
muring its  low  sweet  summer-song  to  shingly  beach  and 
jutting  rock  ledge.  His  curls  flew  behind  him  lustrous 
in  sunlight,  the  light  velvet-clad  figure  flashed  over  the 
green  in  headlong  speed ;  he  knew  not  whither  or  why  he 
was  flying,  driven  on  by  blind  instinct  to  hide  and  wild 
longing  to  be  rid  of  bitter,  incomprehensible  pain.  He 
was  deserted  and  alone;  all  was  gone.  The  whole  wide 
world  had  been  summed  for  him  in  the  word  mother; 


THE   JOY- BELLS  9 

there  was  no  one  now  to  take  counsel  with,  no  one  now 
to  sympathize  with  this  intolerable  pain  and  strange- 
ness, no  one  to  care — she  did  not  care,  she  had  left 
him.  He  could  never  have  left  her,  yet  she  left  him — 
and  was  happy.  Everybody  said  she  would  be  happy 
with  that  man;  they  wished  them  happiness,  they  spoke 
of  the  happy  pair ;  the  joy-bells  rang.  Oh,  yes ;  she  was 
happy  enough.  Sobs  rose  in  his  throat  as  he  ran,  un- 
conscious of  the  tears  raining  over  his  firm,  ruddy  cheeks, 
till  he  reached  a  favorite  secluded  spot,  a  ledge  a  little 
way  down  the  cliff  looking  out  to  sea,  and  threw  himself 
face  downward  on  the  short  turf  in  the  whole-hearted 
abandonment  of  a  child's  grief. 

Here  the  cliff  curved  in  a  small  sheltering  bay  that 
caught  the  sun  and  shielded  from  all  but  the  south 
wind.  A  few  stunted  trees  grew  here.  They  called  it 
their  sea-bower;  they  had  passed  many  pleasant  hours 
there,  reading,  talking,  watching  the  ships,  and  idling. 
Here  the  best  stories  had  been  told  and  the  best  poems 
learnt  and  recited.  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  Toll  for 
the  Brave,  the  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  Sir  Patrick 
Spens,  and  The  Armada,  had  each  imparted  a  poetic 
aroma  to  the  little  eyrie,  whence  the  sea  was  seen  rolling 
into  illimitable  distance  in  every  tint  of  changing  color. 
Here  he  would  leave  her  with  her  needle  or  her  pencil, 
and  climb  about  in  rock  and  tree  and  cliff,  returning 
with  various  spoil  of  eggs,  shells,  or  seaweed. 

It  put  a  keener  edge  upon  his  despair  to  contrast  it 
with  past  happiness,  and  thus  extract  a  certain  luxury 
from  excess  of  misery.  Strange  that  children  look  for- 
ward so  little  and  backward  so  much,  considering  their 
small  experience  and  unlimited  possibilities.  Perhaps 
the  very  narrowness  of  their  past  dwarfs  the  future  to 
their  inexperienced  vision,  and  makes  their  griefs  so 
piteously  hopeless.  All  poor  nine-year-old  Richard  knew 
was  that  the  happiness  he  once  had  was  gone;  his  heart 
could  not  rise  to  the  possibility  of  fresh  joys ;  the  burden 
of  present  misery,  increased  by  the  memory  of  lost  sweet- 


10  RICHARD   ROSNY 

ness,  paralyzed  it.  Children's  griefs  are  very  long  to 
those  whose  age  is  measured  by  months  and  whose  shape 
and  stature  changes  with  the  seasons,  to  them  a  year  is  a 
great  gulf  of  time.  Richard  ground  his  teeth  and  pressed 
his  body  into  the  turf  in  his  pain,  when  he  thought 
of  the  happiness  of  a  few  months  back,  when  he  was  all 
in  all  to  the  worshiped  mother,  whom,  in  his  masculine 
condescension,  he  regarded  as  a  frail,  feminine  thing  in 
need  of  protection.  He  had  been  her  companion,  coun- 
selor, friend.  He  heard  all  her  grievances,  knew  when 
her  headaches  were  coming,  drew  down  the  blinds  and 
brought  cups  of  tea,  without  any  asking,  and  stepped 
about  the  room  without  sound.  "Richie  is  so  compan- 
ionable, I  need  no  other  society, ' '  he  heard  her  tell  people 
who  tried  to  persuade  her  to  come  out  of  her  widowed  se- 
clusion. "Richie  is  so  useful;  I  could  not  possibly  send 
him  to  school.  To  separate  us  would  break  both  our 
hearts. ' ' 

Yet  she  had  gone  away  with  a  strange  man  and  left 
him  alone,  gone  forever — that  is,  six  weeks.  He  had  liked 
this  Mr.  Belton,  never  suspecting  this  plot  of  taking  his 
mother  away.  The  man  had  given  him  many  presents 
and  taken  him  for  pleasant  excursions,  accepted  with  the 
proviso  "If  mother  may  come,  too."  He  had  suspected 
no  guile  in  the  smiling  acquiescence,  "Mother  may  cer- 
tainly come,  too."  How  could  he  guess  that  those  gifts 
and  treats  were  but  wicked  baits  to  rob  him  of  all  worth 
having?  Still  less  suspect  that  his  only  friend  was  in 
league  with  this  man  against  him?  He  had  even  been 
thankful  to  the  brute  for  calling  at  the  cottage  during 
his  absence  at  Latin  lessons. 

It  was  but  a  few  weeks  since  his  mother  sprung  a 
mine  upon  him  in  this  way:  "Richie,  darling,"  she  said, 
' '  I  have  something  very  serious  to  tell  you. ' ' 

There  was  that  in  her  voice  that  made  him  shiver  with 
certainty  of  calamity  in  the  air.  He  heard  that  it  was 
not  good  to  be  alone,  that  grief  could  not  last  forever, 
that  life  was  so  ordered  that  a  boy  needed  not  only  a 


THE   JOY- BELLS  11 

mother,  but  a  father.  He  heard  it  all  with  a  look  of  sad 
bewilderment  that  made  her  gather  him  to  her  heart  with 
sudden  caresses.  Then  she  told  him  that  their  dear 
friend,  Mr.  Belton,  was  to  marry  her  and  be  a  father  to 
her  fatherless  boy. 

To  marry  his  mother !  Married  people  lived  together 
and  had  all  things  in  common,  so  far  he  understood,  with 
great  bitterness.  Stifling  pain  rose  in  his  throat  at  the 
picture  of  this  Mr.  Belton  sitting  at  their  hearth,  and 
himself  set  aside  and  betrayed. 

"Don't  look  like  that,  Richie,"  she  said,  watching 
the  quiver  of  the  proud,  silent  lips;  "it  is  for  your  sake, 
dearest.  We  shall  be  so  happy  together,  we  three. ' '  He 
hid  his  face  in  her  breast. 

"You  don't  know  how  much  you  need  a  father," 
she  murmured. 

"We  were  happy  enough  as  we  were,"  he  muttered, 
lifting  his  head  and  eluding  the  hand  on  his  curls.  "No 
boy  wants  a  second-hand  father. ' ' 

Vaguely  feeling  that  he  scored  by  that  expression; 
she  looked  frowningly  at  him.  The  look,  so  new  and  un- 
natural, cut  into  his  heart;  he  tasted  the  bitterness  of 
jealousy.  "Belton  is  a  beast,"  he  cried,  and  walked  out 
of  the  room. 

Edith  Rosny  knew  well  how  to  move  the  young  heart 
upon  which  she  made  such  perilously  large  demands; 
she  had  recourse  to  tears,  entreaties,  and  large  asser- 
tions of  affection.  Mr.  Belton  was  not  again  called  a 
beast  and  Mrs.  Rosny  was  only  once  reminded  of  many 
past  assurances  that  her  son  inherited  his  father's  ex- 
clusive place  in  her  heart.  Henceforth  Richard,  studi- 
ously ignoring  or  avoiding  all  mention  of  the  marriage, 
treated  his  future  stepfather  with  polite  toleration,  ac- 
cepted his  advances,  and  sometimes,  in  the  charm  of  his 
society,  forgot  the  approaching  bond  and  all  its  bitter- 
ness for  a  space. 

He  remembered  his  own  father,  who  died  when  he 
was  four.  The  memory  had  been  constantly  renewed  by 


12  RICHARD   ROSNY 

his  mother,  who  poured  out  reminiscences,  feelings,  re- 
grets and  consolations,  from  sheer  necessity  of  speech 
and  lack  of  any  other  confidant  at  first,  from  habit  and 
want  of  consideration  afterward,  into  the  half-heeding 
and  wholly  unfit  ears  of  her  little  son,  whose  unduly 
stimulated  feelings  rose  to  the  large  demands  made  upon 
them.  A  cheery  smile,  a  strong,  kind  voice,  arms  that 
caught  and  tossed  or  carried  him,  was  all  he  could  recall 
of  the  man  whose  picture  still  smiled  from  the  wall,  be- 
neath the  sword  that  Richard  regarded  with  silent  rever- 
ence and  secret  fascination.  He  remembered  the  strange- 
ness and  dignity  of  following  a  coffin  to  church  with 
grown  men,  of  wearing  black  clothes  and  observing  un- 
usual rites  in  a  grassy  place,  where  the  sun  shone  on 
many  flowers  and  birds  sang  in  bushes,  and  he  looked  up 
at  the  blue  sky  in  which  God  lived.  All  this  was  con- 
nected in  the  vaguest  way  with  his  father,  who  lived  in 
his  thoughts  as  the  naval  officer  smiling  so  kindly  from 
the  wall.  He  felt  in  his  dim,  childish  way  that  a  great 
wrong  had  been  done  the  cheery  sailor  who  smiled  on 
unsuspecting  in  his  frame,  while  others  usurped  his 
rights  and  reigned  in  his  stead. 

The  whole  thing  was  so  complicated.  That  is  the 
tragedy  of  childhood,  to  be  blind  and  bewildered,  to 
grope  in  darkness  and  shatter  oneself  upon  invisible 
wrongs  and  harms.  Suppose  it  was  only  a  bad  dream,  and 
he  would  wake  presently  and  find  her  sitting  there  with 
her  book,  ready  to  go  home  to  their  quiet  cottage  and 
their  simple  ways  as  last  autumn?  There  was  always 
something  to  be  gathered,  something  to  be  looked  at  on 
the  way,  the  fire  to  be  built  up,  chestnuts  to  be  roasted 
at  home.  The  pleasant  lamplit  evening,  with  books  and 
games  and  music  and  stories  told  by  firelight,  he  lying 
stretched  on  the  rug.  Then  the  sense  of  outside  night 
brooding  over  the  wide,  unseen  world,  while  they  two 
were  safe  within,  the  wonder  of  stars  and  moon,  the 
weird  pleasure  of  darkness  and  storm,  the  howl  of  winds 
and  roar  of  seas  and  all  the  charm  of  wreck  and  peril  on 


THE   JOY- BELLS  13 

sea  and  land.  The  pleasure  of  sleep  and  dreams  and 
the  snugness  of  the  little  bed  in  the  dressing-room  with 
the  open  door  through  which  they  could  speak  to  each 
other  on  waking  in  the  morning.  All  was  lost  now. 
There  was  nobody  to  go  home  to,  only  Susan  to  stare  at 
his  misery  and  misunderstand  and  interfere  with  him. 
"Why  go  back  at  all?  He  would  stay  out  all  night  and 
wander  far  away  and  never  be  found  or  heard  of  again 
unless  he  was  picked  up  dead.  And  it  would  serve  them 
jolly  well  right. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE     LIGHTHOUSE 

THINGS  grew  vague  and  vanished,  then  he  heard  a 
voice  that  seemed  to  have  been  speaking  ever  so  long  in 
a  curious  sort  of  dream  close  by  him. 

"AVhatever's  the  matter  with  ee?"  it  said  clearly  at 
last, 

Richie  rolled  over  on  his  back  and  looked  up  through 
hot  and  swollen  eyes  in  the  sunburnt,  good-tempered 
face  of  a  boy  of  about  sixteen,  in  a  stained  white  smock 
tucked  into  corduroy  trousers,  battered  felt  hat,  and 
heavy  boots. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,"  he  replied,  slowly  getting 
up  and  pushing  back  his  damp  tangle  of  curls.  Then 
he  saw,  by  the  gray  melancholy  of  the  sea  under  a  sky 
of  pearly  cloud,  that  the  sun  had  set  behind  a  mist-bank 
and  dusk  was  falling. 

"Go  on  with  ee,"  retorted  the  lad.  "Then  what- 
ever hev  ee  ben  a  squinnyen  about  1  You  be  a  nice  mam- 
my-sick mud,  I  hreckon." 

"You  mind  your  own  business  and  get  out  of  my 
way." 

The  boy  laughed  a  slow,  good-tempered,  scornful 
laugh,  leaning  back  with  his  chin  in  the  air  and  his  head 
against  the  cliff  as  he  sat  on  a  jutting  ledge,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  his  legs  stretched  out. 

' '  Hark  to  en, ' '  he  chuckled,  "  't  es  a  smeart  young 
cockerel  as  ever  crowed  on  a  mexen.  Your  comb  ain't 
worth  the  cutten,  young  un,  not  yet.  Look  ee  here.  I 
can  tell  ee  where  there's  a  litter  of  fox-cubs  and  wold 
dog-fox  letten  of  'em  play  with  his  tail  and  wold  mother 
14 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE  15 

setten  washen  of  her  vaace  with  her  paws,  just  like  our 
tortoise-shell  cat  with  her  kittens." 

"Where?"  Ritchie  asked,  his  imagination  dazzled  by 
this  domestic  sketch. 

"Ah!  that's  tellens,  Master  Rosny.  Maybe  if  you 
can  get  up  at  vive  o'clock  to-morrow  mornen  and  stand 
outside  o '  your  back  gaate,  I  '11  take  ee  along  and  show  ee 
the  cubs." 

"I'll  be  there,  if  I  can  wake  in  time.  What  a  kind 
boy  you  are!" 

"Oh!  go  long  with  ee!  I  be  gwine  to  hrow  out  to 
lighthouse  with  these  here  baskets  afore  dark.  You  can 
come  too,  if  ee've  a  mind  to.  Be  ee  man  enough  to  carr 
a  basket?" 

Man  enough?  The  delight  of  rowing  out  to  the 
lighthouse,  whence  yellow  radiance  already  streamed 
over  the  seething  breakers  that  crashed  perpetually  on 
sunken  ledge  and  strong  sea-wall.  All  his  life  he  had 
wanted  to  do  it.  Quickly  and  gladly  he  shouldered  the 
smallest  basket  of  fresh  vegetables,  sprang  down  the 
sandstone  gorge,  over  bush  and  through  brush,  till  they 
reached  a  shingly  shore,  and,  putting  the  baskets  in  a 
broad-beamed  dingey,  beached  above  water-mark  in  a 
niche  in  the  cliff,  ran  her  down  through  the  surf,  and 
then,  jumping  in,  pushed  joyously  out  into  the  bay,  Seth 
Barton  sculling  and  Richard  taking  the  tiller,  as  he  had 
often  done  with  his  mother's  hand  on  his. 

"Look  out,  young  un.  Kape  her  head  straight.  We 
caint  hround  the  earner  close  in,  't  es  hrocks  below. 
Mind  what  I  tell  ee,  athout  you've  a  mind  to  go  down  in 
Davy  Jones's  locker." 

What  happiness  to  feel  the  sea-breath  in  face  and 
hair,  to  feel  the  leaping  stride  of  the  boat  over  the  long, 
lazy  rollers,  whence  foam-fringes  fell  so  softly,  dazzling 
white  in  the  dusk.  A  red  moon  was  peering  above  the 
sea-rim  through  a  break  in  the  clouds  and  casting  a 
tremulous  path  over  the  changing  wave-ridges.  Seth 
pulled  a  slow  and  steady  stroke,  forward  and  backward, 


16  RICHARD   ROSNY 

forward  and  backward,  his  good-tempered  face  and 
honest  eyes  shining  through  the  dusk;  the  oars  struck 
the  trembling  sea  with  a  pleasant  plashing  and  flicker  of 
gleaming  spray.  The  boat  tugged  at  the  tiller  like  a 
horse  trying  to  get  his  head ;  Richie  kept  her  straight  with 
all  his  might,  his  eyes  glowing,  his  heart  filled  with  the 
joy  of  guiding  a  leaping  live  creature  over  the  rocking 
surge,  his  ears  soothed  by  the  multitudinous  murmur  of 
waves  and  soft  deep  boom  of  seas  broken  upon  reef  and 
rock,  and  sliding  white  and  ghostlike  up  lighthouse  walls 
and  flying  in  snowy  drifts  over  half -sunken  juts  and 
ledges. 

''Port,  young  'un;  kape  her  straight  agen.  Vine 
coxen  you'll  maake,  if  ee  doos  what  I  tell  ee."  Yet  Rich- 
ard suspected  that  the  oars  did  more  than  the  tiller  to 
pull  her  head  round. 

Now  the  lighthouse  was  immediately  before  them,  the 
cliffs  towering  to  the  stars  on  their  left;  he  had  never 
been  so  near  the  strong  and  solid  tower  before,  never 
seen  its  crest  of  light  so  well,  or  caught  the  quiver  of  the 
waves  in  its  yellow  luster  so  distinctly.  How  the  great 
breakers  reared  their  crests  from  the  sea,  how  gallantly 
they  plunged  upon  the  solid  rock-bases  of  the  tower,  the 
joy  and  the  tumult  of  them !  His  head  was  uncovered, 
his  long,  curling  hair  floated  out  behind,  gleaming  in  the 
lights;  his  arms  and  legs  had  been  bared  to  go  through 
the  surf;  the  wedding  favor  and  tunic  were  drenched 
with  spray. 

' '  What  do  ee  wear  they  silly  curls  for  ? ' '  Seth  asked, 
lazily  scanning  him.  "Anybody  med  think  't  was  a 
maid  garbed  up  in  buoy 's  cloase. ' ' 

Bitter  feelings  rose  in  Richie 's  breast ;  all  his  misery, 
forgotten  for  a  few  joyous  moments,  returned.  His 
curls  had  long  been  a  reproach  and  burden  and  had 
earned  him  many  a  gibe  and  sneer;  but  his  mother  had 
been  grieved  at  the  thought  of  clipping  them,  so  he  put 
up  with  them  rather  than  vex  her.  But  to  have  to  look 
like  a  girl !  And  she  could  desert  him,  after  that. 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE  17 

No  answer  was  vouchsafed  to  Seth's  rude  remark. 
The  dingey  began  to  prance  and  rear,  like  a  fretted  horse, 
on  the  eddying  confusion  of  meeting  seas,  as  they  turned 
again  to  fetch  a  little  sheltered  cove  in  the  ledge ;  it  was 
grand  to  feel  and  curb  the  spirit  of  her,  and  it  was 
grand  to  see  the  glory  of  the  great  lanterns  turning 
above  in  the  tower  and  flashing,  flashing,  in  that  wonder- 
ful rhythm,  so  that  mariners,  counting  the  flashes  and 
the  dark  moments,  may  know  what  coast  they  are  making. 

Delicious  hunger  that  the  sea  gives,  making  thoughts 
of  all  kinds  of  nice  things  come  into  the  mind,  so  that 
one  tastes  them  over  and  over  again ;  it  is  almost  better 
than  eating  real  food — up  to  a  certain  point,  which 
Bichie  was  fast  approaching.  What  delight  to  make  the 
landing-place  through  the  tumbling  surf,  to  keep  the  dan- 
cing boat  off  the  rock  with  the  boat-hook,  to  heave  the 
baskets  ashore,  to  fall  down  and  get  up  and  fall  down 
again,  and  then  come  ashore  with  a  flying  leap,  and  help 
Seth  haul  her  up  and  make  her  fast ! 

So  this  grave,  gray-haired  man  in  dark  blue  was 
really  the  lighthouse  keeper.  Did  he  live  in  the  tower 
all  alone?  Suppose  the  lanterns  went  out?  Did  he 
never  forget  to  light  them  ?  And  a  thousand  other  ques- 
tions. 

"Come  in  and  have  a  bit  of  supper,  Master  Rosny. 
I  '11  warrant  you  are  sharp-set  after  your  row.  Then  you 
shall  go  up  the  tower  and  see  all  you  want  to  see  and 
Seth  '11  wait  for  ee  for  the  last  of  the  tide.  Do  the  sea 
ever  splash  over  the  door?  Why,  bless  the  child,  the 
foam  flies  up  the  cliff-face  and  round  the  lanterns  in  a 
gale  at  high  tide.  Get  a  boat  here  in  a  heavy  sea  ?  Lord 
love  ye,  nothing  could  live.  The  sea  would  lift  her  up 
and  fling  her  on  the  rocks  just  as  you  might  drop  a  wren's 
egg  on  a  door-step  and  squash  it.  No;  Grace  Darling's 
lighthouse  was  far  away  from  this  up  on  the  north  coast 
on  the  Fame  Islands.  Come  and  see  me  arid  my  mate  as 
often  as  you  like,  my  dear,  and  welcome.  I  don't  know 
as  we  often  have  too  much  company  out  here.  Here's 


18  RICHARD   ROSNY 

frech  milk  Seth  has  brought,  we'll  make  some  tea  for  ye. 
I  served  before  the  mast  on  the  Redoubtable  under  your 
father,  and  a  smart  young  officer  he  was.  He  was  sec- 
ond lieutenant,  that  cruise. ' ' 

All  was  so  orderly  and  snug  and  small  in  the  keeper's 
house ;  it  was  almost  like  being  on  board  ship,  everything 
so  neatly  stowed.  There  was  a  charm  in  the  homely  fare, 
the  bread  and  cheese  and  ship  biscuit,  the  wTell-sugared 
tea,  the  steaming  glass  of  rum  the  men  took,  the  smell  of 
strong  tobacco  pervading  everything ;  all  was  exquisitely 
masculine.  The  tower  stood  on  a  ledge,  with  a  cliff  ris- 
ing sheer  behind  it  and  sea  all  round,  except  at  neap  tides, 
when  the  rocky  ledge  between  tower  and  cliff  was  ex- 
posed. The  whole  world  cut  off,  nothing  but  sea  and 
cliff  to  be  seen,  nothing  but  grinding  surges,  booming 
breakers,  and  wailing  sea-birds  to  be  heard  in  calm 
weather.  And  in  storm?  There  imagination  rioted 
and  the  boom  of  minute  guns  marked  time  to  a  tumul- 
tuous symphony  of  wind  and  tempest.  It  was  glorious. 

Up  and  up  the  tower,  from  story  to  story,  they  went, 
seeing  strange  and  wonderful  mechanism  and  endless 
complications  of  lenses  and  facets  to  distribute  and  mul- 
tiply and  reflect  the  light  and  regulate  and  intensify  it  at 
need.  Richard  stood  outside  by  the  railing  and  looked 
clear  away  to  the  pale  afterglow  in  the  west,  across  the 
wide  and  placid  sea,  that  was  like  a  floor  of  wrinkled  gray 
metal;  his  heart  beat  at  the  thought  that  he  might  be 
looking  straight  into  America ;  down  below  in  the  circle 
of  light  the  shimmer  of  waves  was  dizzying  yet  inspiring ; 
on  the  other  side  the  moon  was  laying  that  inviting  path- 
way of  quivering  golden  scales  that  always  makes  one 
want  one  knows  not  what. 

Sea-birds  must  feel  like  this  when  flying  high  over 
sea,  Richard  thought.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  joy  of 
action  and  the  glamor  of  peril  and  strife  took  hold  of 
him;  he  felt  the  breadth  and  variety  of  the  world,  the 
narrowness  of  fireside  things,  and  the  wide  ranges  of  in- 
terest and  hope  beyond  the  hothouse  of  emotion  in  which 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE  19 

he  had  been  cradled  and  confined;  the  sea  was  in  his 
blood  and  the  waves  were  calling,  calling  to  him.  He 
had  slipped  his  prison  bars  and  escaped  into  free  space. 
All  that  trouble  of  the  wedding  and  the  joy-bells,  and  the 
bitterness  of  parting  and  betrayal,  was  far  and  far  be- 
hind in  a  forgotten  past. 

When  they  took  the  empty  baskets  back  to  the  boat, 
a  thoughtful  and  philosophic  cat  and  a  friendly  dog 
came  down  with  the  men  to  see  them  off,  and  the  canary 
chirruped  sleepily  as  they  passed  its  cage ;  only  the  hens 
were  silent  on  their  perches  above  the  coops  that  had  to 
be  taken  in  when  the  great  seas  came  sweeping  over  the 
rock  and  the  outhouses.  Did  the  lighthouseman  think 
that  a  boy  of  nine  or  ten,  providing  he  was  big  and 
strong  and  looked  older,  might  be  got  into  the  navy? 
The  keeper  feared  this  was  not  possible;  young  gentle- 
men began  even  later  now  than  formerly.  "You  learn 
all  you  can  and  get  as  strong  and  healthy  as  may  be,  Mas- 
ter Rosny,  till  you're  rising  fourteen.  And  don't  ee  eat 
too  much  sugar  and  spoil  your  teeth.  They're  mighty 
particular  nowadays  in  the  Royal  Navy. ' ' 

Till  fourteen?  Very  chilling  to  think  of,  still  you 
might  begin  in  a  naval  school. 

It  was  late  when  the  anxiety  at  the  cottage  was  re- 
lieved by  the  appearance  of  a  dirty,  weary  boy,  with 
eyes  still  red  and  face  swollen  by  crying,  yet  not  the 
boy  who  had  rushed  heart-broken  from  the  house  a  few 
hours  since.  That  seemed  to  be  some  boy  Richard  had 
heard  of  ages  ago  and  despised  and  forgotten.  What 
was  home  and  affection  to  the  joy  of  the  sea  and  the  free- 
dom of  action  ?  Susan  had  every  right  to  scold,  but  her 
scolding  was  of  small  account  now. 

"Don't  bother,"  he  said  sleepily,  "I  won't  stay  out 
again  without  letting  you  know.  There !  I  promise. ' ' 

Two  minutes  after  he  was  fast  asleep  and  had  missed 
neither  his  mother  nor  the  once  treasured  good-night 
kiss.  It  was  some  days  before  Mrs.  Belton  received 
Richard's  first  letter.  "My  dear  Muffle,"  the  stiff. 


20  RICHARD   ROSNY 

round  letters  spelt  out,  "I  have  a  hedgehog.  I  have 
seen  some  fox-cubs.  I  hope  you  are  well.  Mr.  Wrex- 
ham  tried  to  thrash  me,  so  I  kicked  him  and  he  didn't. 
I  like  Seth  Barton.  I  have  been  to  the  lighthouse.  Susan 
says  send  her  duty.  I  send  my  love.  I  now  end  this  let- 
ter. I  remain  your  affectionate  son,  Richard  Rosny." 

Mrs.  Belton  perused  the  half-sheet  more  than  once 
before  extracting  any  definite  information  from  it.  Who 
was  Seth  Barton?  What  could  have  moved  Mr.  Wrex- 
ham  to  the  serious  step  of  trying  to  thrash  Richie?  He 
had  never  been  struck  in  his  life. 

"All  the  more  reason  for  making  a  beginning,  my 
dear,"  her  husband  said. 

Once  again  the  joy-bells  rang,  for  the  bride's  home- 
coming. Susan  was  busy  and  bustling  and  cross  days 
before  the  event,  so  Richard  gave  her  and  the  cottage  a 
wide  berth  during  the  preparations. 

"I  never  see  a  child  so  changed,"  poor  Susan  con- 
fided to  the  supplementary  maid  necessary  to  the  en- 
larged household.  "Never  a  fault  to  vind  with  him  be- 
fore. And  I've  often  said  to  the  mistress  he  was  more 
like  a  girl  than  a  boy  for  goodness,  and  prayed  it  mightn  't 
be  he  was  marked  for  a  better  world.  But  from  the  hour 
Mrs.  Rosny 's  back  was  turned  he've  been  nether  to  hev 
nor  to  hold.  What  I've  gone  through  with  that  young 
gentleman,  Maria,  is  enough  to  turn  anybody's  hair 
white.  Sooner  than  undertake  a  job  like  that  agen,  I'd 
pay  five  pounds  down  and  give  up  service  if  I  had  to  go 
to  the  workhouse.  Mr.  Wrexham  says  I  must  have  pa- 
tience, and  I  'm  sure  Job  couldn  't  be  named  with  me.  But 
anybody  has  their  feelings.  Though,  to  be  sure,  Mr. 
Wrexham  have  been  led  a  life  himself.  And  I  nursed 
him  from  a  baby.  And  up  at  night  with  his  teething  and 
all." 

Mrs.  Belton  was  somewhat  astonished  at  her  son 's  ap- 
pearance when  she  drove  up  to  the  cottage,  as  she  had 
gone  away,  to  the  sound  of  joy-bells  ringing,  and  caught 
sight  of  the  slender  little  figure  at  the  gate. 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE  21 

Often,  and  tearfully,  during  the  honeymoon,  she  had 
recalled  the  wistful  gaze,  the  sad,  bewildered  face,  framed 
in  long  brown  curls  touched  with  gold,  the  graceful  fig- 
ure in  black  velvet,  silk  stockings  and  buckled  shoes,  to 
lose  sight  of  which  had  cost  her  many  pangs  and  some 
remorse.  The  boy  she  now  saw  appeared  taller  and 
stronger,  his  face  tanned  with  sun  and  wind,  his  curls 
gone,  and  replaced  by  an  irregular  crop  of  short  hair 
with  jagged  ends  sticking  out ;  the  velvet  suit,  for  cogent 
reasons,  had  given  place  to  one  of  cloth;  the  hands, 
plunged  in  pockets,  had  bruises  and  scratches  on  their 
brown ;  he  had  a  black  eye  and  a  cut  lip,  his  look  was  de- 
fiant, his  attitude,  with  feet  planted  very  far  apart,  un- 
usual. And  this  change  in  six  weeks. 

' '  Better  have  taken  my  advice  and  sent  him  to  board 
with  Wrexham, ' '  the  stepfather  commented. 

"My  own  boy,  my  precious  Richie,  what  have  you 
done  to  yourself?"  was  poor  Edith's  piteous  cry  on 
alighting  and  embracing  the  child,  who  first  wriggled 
away  from  her  and  then  nearly  crushed  her  with  a 
great  bear's  hug.  Belton  laughed  his  genial  good-tem- 
pered laugh  and  pinched  the  boy's  ear.  "Been  in  the 
wars,  old  man?"  he  asked.  "Who  gave  you  that  game 
eye?" 

"That  beast,  Brookes;  you  know,  the  baker's  boy. 
He  was  always  cheeking  a  fellow,  so  I  had  to  thrash  him. 
A  jolly  good  licking  he  got,  too.  He 's  twelve.  Oh !  that 
cut  on  the  mouth  was  Ronald  Musgrave.  He  isn  't  half  a 
bad  chap.  We  had  it  out  at  Wrexham 's  after  lessons  one 
day." 

"And  the  curls,  old  chappie?  Nonsense,  Edith.  The 
boy  isn't  a  girl.  So  you  cut  them  off  yourself?" 

"And  you  were  not  so  very  lonely  without  Muffle?" 
Edith  asked  him  later,  with  disappointed  tenderness. 

"How  could  I  be  lonely,  Muff?  When  I  know  all  the 
boys  in  Wimbury " 

"All  the  boys  in  Wimbury?  All  the  cottage  and 
farm  boys  ?  My  dearest  child,  how  dreadful ! ' ' 


22  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Besides  all  the  boys  at  Wrexham's.  It's  awfully 
jolly  learning  and  playing  with  other  boys.  Glad  you 
are  home  again  ?  Why,  of  course  I  am,  but  I  can 't  keep 
on  saying  it.  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  make  a  fellow  look 
like  a  fool  before  people,  Muff,  dear. ' ' 

Edith  looked  long  in  the  dark-blue  eyes  and  sighed 
audibly.  "Ah,  Richie,  the  dear  old  days,  when  we  were 
all  in  all  to  each  other,  are  over, ' '  she  said.  ' '  They  will 
never  come  again,  I  sadly  fear." 

"How  can  they  when  you  are  married  to  Mr.  Bel- 
ton?" 

"Not  Mr.  Belton,  dearest.     Try  to  say  father." 

"7  didn't  marry  him,  Muffle.  /  was  quite  happy  as 
we  were;  but  I  was  only  a  baby.  Don't  cry.  There. 
You  may  kiss  me  when  nobody's  looking.  But  I'm  not 
going  to  be  made  a  girl  of  any  longer.  And  I  want  to 
go  to  sea." 

"You  can  not  know  what  a  mother's  feelings  are, 
dear,  or  you  would  be  kinder  and  more  considerate.  Boys 
always  want  to  go  to  sea  when  they  are  young,  especially 
bad  boys,  who  are  troublesome  at  home.  Go  away  and 
leave  me;  you  have  given  me  a  headache  as  well  as  a 
heartache. ' ' 

Richie  was  conquered;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
expressions  of  contrition  and  caresses  and  assertions  that 
he  would  never,  never,  never  leave  darling  Muffle,  except 
for  the  honor  of  England,  and  even  then  not  unless  she 
wished  it. 

"These  women" — he  muttered,  as  he  left  her  and  re- 
paired to  his  usual  refuge  from  domestic  care,  the  high- 
est forks  of  a  great  linden-tree  on  the  lawn — "they  have 
to  be  tenderly  handled.  They  are  so  frail ; "  so  he  had 
heard  his  stepfather  say. 

That  new  relation  proved  a  more  than  tolerable  addi- 
tion to  the  domestic  circle.  He  took  the  boy  out  with 
him  in  weather  that  kept  Edith  indoors,  he  let  him 
tramp  over  stubble  and  turnips  after  birds  with  him  and 
taught  him  many  mysteries  of  the  field.  He  gave  him 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE  23 

a  pony  and  taught  him  to  ride,  and  readily  promised  that 
he  should  go  into  the  navy.  He  never  found  fault  with 
him,  but  treated  him  with  easy  tolerance  on  equal  terms 
of  companionship,  laughing  him  out  of  follies  and  siding 
with  him  against  his  mother's  overtenderness. 

By  Christmas  Edith  was  jealous  of  the  liking  her  hus- 
band and  son  showed  for  each  other's  society.  Her 
jealousy  resulted  in  a  reluctant  consent  to  send  the  boy 
to  school,  but  only  to  the  grammar-school,  some  seven  or 
eight  miles  distant.  Thither  he  rode  every  morning  on 
the  pony,  often  starting  before  daylight  and  returning 
after  dark,  tired  and  muddy  and  uncompanionable,  with 
lessons  to  prepare  during  the  evening.  Sometimes  on 
coming  home  he  found  his  mother  alone,  Mr.  Belton 
having  gone  off  for  a  few  days  on  business;  then  there 
was  a  renewal  of  the  old,  happy  companionship  of 
the  precious  winter,  enjoyable,  but  detrimental  to  les- 
sons. 

In  the  summer,  to  Richard's  great  grief,  the  cottage 
was  let,  and  they  went  to  live  at  the  new  large  house  that 
had  been  preparing  for  them  within  easy  reach  of  the 
central  office  of  the  private  bank  in  which  Belton  was  a 
partner.  So  at  the  beginning  of  the  autumn  term  he 
became  a  boarder  at  the  grammar-school  and  found  con- 
solation in  living  with  boys,  and  great  joy  in  going  home 
for  the  Christmas  holidays,  with  a  good  character  in  his 
pocket,  easily  earned  by  a  boy  who  learned  with  ease  and 
pleasure  and  was  strong  and  quick  at  games,  good-tem- 
pered and  apt  at  the  give-and-take  and  rough-and-ready 
fellowship  that  earn  popularity  in  the  boy  world. 

It  was  strange  and  pleasantly  exciting  to  be  going 
home  to  a  new  house,  in  spite  of  some  pangs  of  longing 
for  familiar  "Wimbury  faces. 

"Why,  where's  mother?"  was  his  sudden,  dismayed 
cry,  when  the  train  roared  into  the  station  and  he  saw  his 
stepfather  standing  alone  on  the  platform. 

What  a  little  thing  changes  the  world !  He  had  been 
growing  more  and  more  uneasy  for  the  last  ten  minutes 


24  RICHARD   ROSNY 

in  the  fear  of  being  publicly  kissed  and  embraced  at  the 
carriage-door;  but  when  the  train  stopped,  the  expected 
face  was  nowhere  to  be  seen  and  there  was  no  fear  of 
kisses ;  everything  turned  blank  and  dreary  and  his  heart 
dropped  down  plumb  in  heavy  dread.  "She  is — isn't 
ill  ? "  he  added,  gulping  down  some  rising  tears. 

''Your  mother  is  perfectly  well,  Dick,"  Belton  re- 
plied with  a  singular  smile.  ' '  You  will  find  her  at  home 
— very  much  engaged — too  much  so  to  come  out  this  aft- 
ernoon. ' ' 

Too  much  engaged  to  come  and  meet  him  1  A  singu- 
lar hearing.  There  are  worse  things  than  too  much  hug- 
ging and  kissing  before  people.  He  could  very  well  have 
put  up  with  a  public  hugging,  after  all.  Too  much  en- 
gaged ?  A  sad  feeling  of  being  out  in  the  cold  came  over 
him ;  nobody  wanted  him.  Belton 's  manner  was  strange 
and  unusual;  he  seemed  to  be  keeping  something  back; 
he  was  curiously  reserved  and  preoccupied. 

"None  of  your  stepfather  ways,"  Richie  thought  to 
himself,  pulling  his  cap  over  his  eyes  and  whistling  to 
conceal  his  disappointment. 

"What  in  the  world  makes  her  too  much  engaged  to 
come  out?"  he  asked  presently,  a  little  breathless  from 
keeping  up  with  Belton 's  long,  quick  strides. 

"Ah!  that's  tellings,  Richard.  There's  a  little  sur- 
prise for  you  at  the  Pines,  old  chap." 

"Hang  surprises!"  Leaving  the  cottage  had  been 
one  surprise,  a  stepfather  another.  His  heart  sank  lower 
than  ever  when  his  stepfather  stopped  at  an  unfamil- 
iar gate  and  pushed  him  in  before  him  to  a  gravel  drive 
bordered  by  tall  pines  and  unfamiliar  shrubs.  This 
led  to  a  solid  stone  house  standing  gray  in  the  wintry 
dusk  and  looking  somewhat  chill  and  repellent,  yet  with 
one  window  glowing  as  with  warm  welcome,  its  glow 
quickly  supplemented  by  the  sudden  radiance  of  an 
opening  door,  to  which  Richard  leaped  with  a  joyous  cry 
as  Edith  came  out  and  clasped  him  to  her  breast  with  no 
lack  of  fervor  and  many  terms  of  endearment.  She  led 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE  25 

him  in  silently  through  a  fair-sized,  lamplit  hall,  to  a 
room  at  the  other  end  of  the  house ;  and,  in  the  warmth 
and  brilliance  of  a  blazing  hearth,  held  him  close  to  kiss 
and  at  a  distance  to  look  at  his  cool,  ruddy  cheeks,  bright, 
shining  eyes,  and  added  inches  of  height. 

"Darling,  how  you  have  grown,  and  how  long  it  is 
since  I  kissed  my  own  boy!  And  how  do  you  like  the 
new  home,  dearest?" 

' '  Oh,  Muffle,  it 's  all  so  fine  and  new  and  strange !  I 
like  the  cottage  best.  And  Wimbury.  And  Seth  Bar- 
ton. And  I  am  so  jolly  hungry." 

"My  precious  child,  of  course  you  are  hungry.  To 
think  of  starving  my  own  boy.  Susan  has  made  you 
such  a  cake.  You  shall  have  your  tea  at  once,  dearie. 
And  then" — very  mysteriously — "I  have  something  to 
show  you. ' ' 

"Ah!  the  surprise,  Muffle.  Daddy  wouldn't  let  out 
what  it  was.  Is  it  alive?" 

"  Oh !  isn  't  it  ? "  Belton  put  in  with  a  cheerful  shout  of 
laughter ;  ' '  very  much  alive  and  kicking,  Dick. ' ' 

"Then  it  can't  be  a  gun,  though  they  do  kick.  Oh, 
Muffle,  how  awful  pretty  you  are ! ' '  Richard  cried,  at  the 
happy,  tender  smile  with  which  Edith  had  averted  her 
face.  ' '  Then  it 's  another  pony  ?  No  ?  Not  a  donkey  ? ' ' 

' '  I  hope  not,  but  you  never  can  tell, ' '  returned  Belton 
with  another  cheerful  shout. 

' '  Nor  a  tortoise  ?  Oh !  I  know ;  it 's  a  parrot.  Why, 
what 's  that  noise  ?  Oh,  Muffle ;  it  is  a  parrot — or  else  a 
cockatoo. ' ' 

"Come  and  see,  darling,  come  and  see,"  she  cried, 
unable  to  contain  herself  longer,  and  hurrying  him  out 
of  the  room  and  up -stairs  in  eager  haste,  while  the  sound 
was  repeated,  filling  Richie  with  amazed  incredulity  that 
grew  and  grew  till  they  found  themselves  in  a  dainty 
pink-and-white  draped  room,  where  a  young  woman 
sat  sewing  by  a  high  fender  at  the  hearth,  and  where 
stood  a  kind  of  little  tent  all  pink  silk  and  white  lace. 
Thither  Edith  joyously  darted  and  gently  drew  from  the 


26  RICHARD   ROSNY 

filmy  folds  a  small  white  lace  package  that  kicked  and 
protested  loudly  against  the  injustice  and  futility  of 
things,  until,  by  some  singular  magic  in  a  few  shakes, 
a  toss  and  a  kiss,  the  thing  became  still  and  placid  and 
was  proudly  laid  in  Richard's  quivering  arms. 

He  turned  white  and  stood  statue-still  under  the  pre- 
cious burden.  This  contingency  had  never  entered  his 
thoughts ;  the  shock  took  away  his  breath.  The  weight  of 
the  warm  living  creature  breathing  so  softly  beneath  his 
wondering  gaze,  its  utter  dependence  upon  him,  and  the 
appeal  of  its  placid  helplessness  and  fragility,  touched 
the  same  chord  that  his  mother 's  tearful  widowhood  and 
demand  for  sympathy  had  so  early  wakened  in  his 
heart;  he  felt  that  he  could  die  in  defense  of  this  soft, 
limp,  helpless  thing.  The  touch  of  the  little  bald  head 
securely  pressing  his  shoulder  thrilled  him,  its  soft  gur- 
gling and  gaze  of  calm  and  thoughtful  wonder  awed 
him ;  he  seemed  to  hold  the  whole  world  within  the  com- 
pass of  his  own  arms  in  the  form  of  that  tiny,  complete 
human  being.  The  creature  was  a  potential  man,  a 
Cceur  de  Lion,  an  Alfred  the  Great,  a  Nelson.  It  seemed 
to  smile  at  him,  the  aimless,  crumpling  and  uncrumpling 
of  its  dainty,  dimpled  fists — so  perfect  and  so  finished, 
with  their  tiny  pink  nails — appeared  conscious  and  full 
of  meaning.  He  would  give  it  his  pony;  it  should  see 
lighthouses  and  fox-cubs  and  go  to  school  and  to  sea.  It 
should  have  the  gun  he  was  longing  for  and  his  fishing- 
rod,  and  learn  to  row  and  ride  and  play  with  other  boys. 

It  was  a  great,  an  almost  intolerable,  moment  in  his 
life ;  he  had  been  still  and  white  and  statue-like  so  many 
minutes,  that  his  mother,  sitting  in  a  low  chair  watching 
him,  grew  uneasy  and  was  as  much  relieved  as  affected, 
when  tears  suddenly  rained  upon  the  tiny,  crumpled 
arms  and  pensive  face,  and  he  burst  out  with  a  cry  of, 
' '  Oh,  Muffle,  a  brother,  an  own  brother  at  last ! ' ' 


CHAPTER    III 

AN     OWN     BROTHER 

TEARS  of  emotion  were  to  Edith,  as  to  most  French- 
men, more  refreshing  and  enjoyable  than  the  choicest 
meat  and  drink.  She  shed  many  of  these  pleasant 
larmes  de  sensibilite  over  Richard's  reception  of  the  baby; 
and  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  Belton  looked  into  the 
nursery,  he  found  her  in  a  very  happy  mood,  with  the 
baby  on  her  knee  and  her  sturdy  schoolboy,  half -ashamed 
of  his  burst  of  feeling,  at  her  side. 

''How  do  you  like  your  surprise,  old  chap?"  he 
asked,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  table  with  one  leg  swing- 
ing and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "Ugly  little  squalling 
beggar,  isn  't  it  ? " 

"The  prettiest  pet  in  the  world,"  Edith  cried,  ca- 
ressing the  baby  and  looking  at  Richard,  who  stood  very 
squarely  at  her  side,  trying  to  appear  unconcerned,  and 
dangling  his  new  silver  watch  before  the  infant's  solemn 
and  thoughtful  gaze. 

' '  I  always  wanted  a  brother, ' '  he  replied  in  a  voice  of 
grave  content.  ' '  But  he 's  rather  young, ' '  he  added,  cal- 
culating that  he  would  be  twenty  by  the  time  the  baby 
had  reached  his  own  age. 

"Well!  old  boy,  that  fault's  soon  mended.  Come 
along,  don 't  let  your  mother  turn  you  into  a  nurse-maid, ' ' 
Belton  said,  with  an  uneasy,  almost  jealous,  feeling.  The 
baby  had  touched  no  such  depths  in  its  father  as  in  Rich- 
ard, who  was  still  pale  from  the  agitation  of  that  imper- 
ishable moment ;  it  affected  Belton  physically  with  a  sort 
of  tolerant  disgust,  mentally  as  a  necessary  and  unob- 
jectionable incident  in  life.  Yet  Richard  appeared  to  his 

27 


28  RICHARD   ROSNY 

stepfather  to  be  profoundly  and  unaccountably  attracted 
by  this  uninteresting  scrap  of  human  infirmity.  It  was 
more  like  a  girl  than  a  boy,  he  thought,  with  the  irrita- 
tion of  average  minds  at  what  they  can  not  measure  into 
truism  and  proverb. 

But  Richard  never  forgot  the  deep  and  awed  feeling 
called  out  by  the  pressure  of  the  baby's  warm  body  on 
his  arms.  It  stood  out  in  his  memory  like  the  sad  dignity 
of  walking  in  infancy  behind  his  father's  coffin  and  the 
agony  of  being  left  behind  to  hear  his  mother's  wedding- 
bells.  It  colored  all  the  holiday  time  and  gave  a  sweet 
and  imperishable  friendliness  to  the  new,  strange  house 
that  had  looked  so  unfriendly  in  the  grayness  and  chill 
of  the  winter  dusk,  a  brother  at  last,  something  to  take 
care  of,  a  living  toy  more  interesting  than  any  of  the  pets 
on  which  his  affections  had  been  lavished  and  often 
wrecked.  Without  being  conscious  of  anything  more 
than  a  vague  want,  he  had  been  very  lonely;  Edith's  ex- 
acting and  exclusive  devotion,  which  barred  all  child 
companionship  and  shut  him  away  from  older  friends — 
she  would  never  suffer  him  to  visit  his  Rosny  relations, 
and  it  was  not  convenient  for  them  to  come  to  remote 
Wimbury — had  created  an  isolation  very  sad  and  un- 
wholesome for  a  child,  whose  emotions  were  overstimu- 
lated  in  one  direction  and  whose  instincts  were  emi- 
nently social  and  combative.  Companionship  implies 
combat  and  contradiction  as  well  as  agreement  and  am- 
ity ;  a  good  lover  is  always  a  good  fighter ;  no  one  cares 
to  fight  an  unlovable  foe. 

The  exquisite  surprise  of  that  first  holiday  evening, 
the  warmth  and  glow  of  the  festal  Christmas,  the  cheer- 
ful, careless  stepfather,  the  beautiful,  tender  mother,  and 
the  small,  unconscious  baby,  the  center  that  linked  them 
all  together,  made  the  best  memory  of  his  boyhood.  Nor 
did  his  deep  and  silent  love  for  Gerald  ever  change  or 
falter  all  his  life  long.  But  he  kept  true  to  the  newly 
wakened  instinct  to  curb  and  hide  his  feelings,  and  after 
the  first  outburst  seldom  spoke  of  the  baby,  and  avoided 


AN   OWN    BROTHER  29 

all  allusions  to  the  new  relationship.  He  liked  to  look 
at  the  little  creature  asleep,  when  no  one  was  near;  but 
liked  most  to  be  told  to  carry  it  about  in  the  garden.  He 
would  sometimes  fetch  it  from  the  nursery  and  sit  in 
some  quiet  nook,  the  baby  on  his  arm  and  a  favorite  book 
in  his  hand,  for  a  long  hour. 

One  evening  during  those  holidays  the  family  trio 
were  peacefully  dining  alone,  when  a  woman's  shrill  and 
long-drawn  shriek  cut  the  air  and  made  them  all  start 
from  the  table  with  one  accord  and  hurry  into  the  hall. 
Hasty  steps  and  confused  outcries  followed,  and  before 
Edith  and  Belton  could  gather  from  disjointed  exclama- 
tions of  servants  that  the  fire,  evident  by  clouds  of  smoke 
and  a  smell  of  burning,  was  in  the  nursery,  where  linen 
airing  on  the  high  fender  had  caught  a  flame  blown  out 
by  a  wind-gust,  and  hurry  toward  it,  they  were  met  by  a 
little,  slender  figure  plunging  back  through  smoke  and 
flame,  with  a  wailing  bundle  tightly  clasped  and  wrapped 
in  a  woolen  coverlet  in  its  arms. 

At  sight  of  this,  Belton  darted  into  the  nearest  bed- 
room, snatched  an  eider-down  and  wrapped  Richard  in 
it,  first  throwing  the  baby,  whose  woolen  coverlet  was 
only  singed,  to  Edith,  who  ran  back  to  the  warm  dining- 
room  with  her  salvage,  too  dazed  and  bewildered  by  the 
sudden  fright  and  its  relief  to  think  of  Richard. 

Left  to  his  fate,  the  boy  fell  unconscious  on  the  floor, 
while  Belton  set  vigorously  to  work  to  put  out  the  fire, 
as  yet  confined  to  the  nursery,  where  only  draperies, 
chairs,  and  other  light  things  had  suffered.  In  ten  min- 
utes only  a  few  charred  fragments,  smoking  rags,  and 
some  drenched  furniture  remained  to  tell  the  tale  of  the 
mishap,  and  Belton,  breathless,  smutty,  and  well-pleased 
that  the  adventure  had  ended  so  well,  went  back  to  the 
dining-room,  where  the  baby,  rudely  awakened  by  its  res- 
cue but  totally  unharmed,  was  loudly  expressing  its  in- 
dignation, and  Edith  trying  to  soothe  it  to  sleep  again. 

"But  what  of  Richie ?"  Belton  asked.  "Where  is 
our  small  hero  ? ' ' 


30  RICHARD    ROSNY 

She  had  completely  forgotten  him,  she  owned,  and 
Belton,  much  concerned,  rushed  off  and  returned  a  few 
minutes  later,  half-carrying  a  staggering,  blinded  boy, 
with  singed-off  hair  and  eyelashes  and  burned  face,  who 
kept  repeating  in  a  dazed  way  that  he  was  not  hurt,  not 
in  the  least,  and  why  was  the  doctor  sent  for? 

Everybody,  as  Edith  observed,  admired  the  excellent 
understanding  between  the  stepfather  and  son.  She  be- 
gan to  be  more  and  more  jealous  of  the  satisfaction  they 
took  in  each  other's  society,  though  an  indefinable  some- 
thing told  her  that  little  love  was  lost  between  them. 
Belton  liked  to  be  followed  by  an  active,  intelligent  lad, 
eager  to  acquire  masculine  occupations  and  sports,  ready 
to  fetch  and  carry,  and  young  enough  to  be  sent  off  when 
in  the  way,  while  Richard,  weary  of  feminine  ways  and 
coddling,  was  glad  to  ride  and  walk  and  talk  with  a 
grown  man.  Each  thought  of  the  other,  the  man  con- 
sciously, the  boy  unconsciously,  as  a  necessary  encum- 
brance, an  inevitable  evil,  to  be  tolerated  for  the  sake  of 
the  woman  who  at  once  drew  them  together  and  created  a 
repulsion  between  them ;  each  held  the  other  as  an  inter- 
loper, an  infractor  of  rights;  yet  neither  saw  why  this 
latent  hostility  should  be  a  bar  to  good-fellowship  or 
spoil  the  amenities  of  life.  But  when  Richard  dashed  so 
gallantly  through  the  fire  to  save  the  baby,  Belton  was 
moved  to  something  not  unlike  affection,  and  entirely  like 
respect,  for  him.  He  said  nothing,  but  was  solicitous 
about  the  boy's  health  and  comfort,  helping  to  dress  his 
burns,  and  utterly  astonished  to  find  that  Edith  spared 
herself  this  painful  duty.  She  could  not  bear  to  see 
Richie  suffer,  she  said;  as  for  holding  him  during  the 
dressing,  it  was  cruel  to  propose  such  a  thing.  But  Bel- 
ton  held  him  and  saw  him  suffer  and  struggle  and  heard 
him  groan  and  turned  sick  at  the  sound.  Once  it  was  too 
much  for  the  man's  nerves;  he  called  the  doctor  a  brute 
and  told  him  to  stop  his  infernal  torture. 

"It  wants  a  woman's  nerve  for  this,"  the  doctor  said. 
"Was  I  a  brute,  Richie?  "Well,  you  might  have  let  the 


AN   OWN   BROTHER  31 

baby  suffocate;  then  you  would  have  been  spared  all 
this." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  he  said,  stoutly,  "only  I  can't 
help  squealing." 

' '  Never  mind,  old  boy ;  we  '11  run  up  to  town  and  see 
a  pantomime,"  Belton  said,  and  eventually  did,  and  the 
burns  healed,  but  not  without  scars  indelible,  like  the 
griefs  of  youth. 

By  the  next  Christmas  holidays  the  little  brother 
made  bewitching  attempts  to  talk  and  walk,  and  was  be- 
come the  most  amusing  plaything  possible. 

During  those  holidays  the  first  hint  of  discord  be- 
tween the  husband  and  wife  became  perceptible.  Rich- 
ard had  found  his  mother  crying  more  than  once  and  con- 
nected the  tears  with  Belton 's  increasingly  frequent 
absences  from  home.  Then  he  found  himself  the  reluc- 
tant recipient  of  complaints  and  confidences.  He  learnt 
that  men  were  selfish  and  inconsiderate,  that  they  neg- 
lected and  disliked  ailing  wives,  that  it  was  terribly 
lonely  with  one's  husband  away  and  one's  son  at  school 
and  oneself  too  frail  and  suffering  to  go  out  and  into 
society. 

* ' Of  course, ' '  Edith  would  say,  "it  is  a  great  denial 
for  Horace  to  be  unable  to  give  dinners  and  dances,  such 
as  we  began  with.  But  he  never  considers — men  never 
do — what  a  much  greater  denial  it  is  to  the  poor,  frail 
wife,  who  has  to  suffer  as  well.  I  could  never  enjoy  so- 
cial pleasures  with  a  husband  sick  and  lonely  at  home. 
I  wonder  that  he  can.  Yet  he  goes  everywhere.  Richie, 
darling,  will  you  ever  go  out  and  neglect  your  wife? 
Oh!  I  say  nothing  against  your  dear  papa.  He  means 
well;  but  he  doesn't  understand.  He  can  not  see  how 
easily  a  sensitive  nature  is  wounded.  He  thinks  one 
cross  when  one  is  only  depressed.  He  forgets  the  innu- 
merable demands  upon  the  time  and  strength  of  a  mother 
and  mistress  of  a  house.  His  business  never  seems  to 
prevent  his  hunting  and  shooting,  or  billiards  or  dining 
out — he  is  playing  in  a  billiard  match  now,  I  believe — or 


32  RICHARD   ROSNY 

running  up  to  town,  or  being  with  bachelor  friends. 
And  as  for  expense,  he  denies  himself  nothing ;  yet  he  is 
always  grumbling  at  the  bills  that  keep  coming  in  and 
never  seem  to  be  paid.  Richie,  darling,  will  you  grow 
up  and  neglect  your  poor  Muffle  and  break  her  heart? 
No ;  I  shall  always  have  my  own  boy  to  comfort  me.  We 
have  the  same  tastes,  dearie.  Horace  can  not  enter  into 
my  feelings  in  the  least.  He  would  take  no  notice  of 
Gerald  at  first.  Now  baby  is  everything.  But  the  poor 
darling  must  never  cry.  That  drives  his  father  wild, 
and,  of  course,  he  cries  now  he  is  teething.  You  had 
convulsions  with  your  teeth  and  Gerald  is  not  nearly 
such  a  strong  child  as  you  were.  Many  children  die  with 
their  teeth,  and  scarlatina  is  in  the  neighborhood.  It  is 
very  harassing  to  be  a  mother." 

' '  The  little  beggar  looks  strong  enough, ' '  Richard  ob- 
jected. "And  he's  always  laughing.  You  see,  Muffle, 
all  babies  have  to  cut  their  teeth,  and  they  all  seem  to 
howl  over  it,  so  what's  the  use  of  bothering?" 

With  such  philosophy  he  sought  to  comfort  his 
mother,  feeling  himself  on  surer  ground  with  nursery 
than  with  conjugal  troubles.  His  views  upon  marriage 
were  as  yet  hazy;  but,  on  the  whole,  he  considered  the 
holy  estate  an  eminently  unpleasant  one,  and  much  to 
be  wished  away  from  the  general  scheme  of  life.  This 
notion,  far  from  being  dissipated,  took  deeper  root  with 
years.  Little  as  a  boy  observes  such  things,  he  observed 
and  wondered  at  the  depreciating  and  contemptuous 
manner  in  which  Belton  habitually  alluded  to  Edith,  and 
was  infinitely  perplexed  both  by  the  bitterness  of  his 
mother  toward  her  husband's  shortcomings  and  the  in- 
dignation with  which  she  resented  the  faintest  aspersion 
cast  upon  him  by  the  passionate  fondness  and  equally 
passionate  disapproval  she  constantly  expressed  for  him. 
Nor  did  he  know  which  he  resented  most,  his  stepfather's 
depreciation  of  his  mother  or  her  too  outspoken  devotion 
to  her  husband.  Family  life  was  a  wearying  and  bewil- 
dering muddle,  to  which  the  boy-world  in  which  he  lived 


AN   OWN    BROTHER  33 

habitually  offered  a  welcome  contrast;  he  was  always 
glad  to  go  back  to  school. 

Yet,  if  the  domestic  bickerings  bored  and  disgusted 
him,  his  mother 's  daily  repeated  assertion  that  he  was  the 
comfort  and  mainstay  of  her  life,  was  sweet.  Let  alone 
by  his  easy  stepfather,  placed  on  an  unsuitable  eminence 
by  his  mother,  and  looked  up  to  by  the  children,  he  grew 
to  regard  home  as  a  place  of  freedom  from  restraint  and 
discipline,  and  himself  as  the  genial  prince  of  all — except 
that  rival  potentate,  the  master  of  the  house.  Belton 
seldom  corrected  and  never  struck  him ;  Mr.  Wrexham  's 
ill  success  in  that  kind  of  persuasion  had  not  been  encour- 
aging. 

The  vicar  had  given  Mrs.  Belton  his  views  upon  the 
incident,  together  with  an  exact  narration  of  the  details, 
and  Richard,  arraigned  before  his  parents,  had  been  de- 
sired to  offer  some  explanation  of  his  conduct. 

"All  I  mean  to  say  is,"  he  replied,  looking  very 
steadily  at  Belton,  ' '  that  I  'in  not  going  to  be  thrashed  by 
anybody.  If  any  man  hits  me,  I  shall  kick  out  and  give 
him  what  for." 

"It's  time  you  went  to  school,  old  chap.  It  would 
soon  alter  your  views, ' '  Belton  observed  carelessly.  But 
he  took  care  not  to  rouse  opposition  by  personal  chastise- 
ment before  Richard's  views  on  the  subject  had  been 
brought  into  proper  focus.  Yet  his  hand  was  heavy 
upon  his  own  children,  heavier  than  Richard,  whose 
views  on  corporal  punishment,  as  his  stepfather  had  pre- 
dicted, had  been  entirely  changed  by  school  life,  thought 
right  or  wise. 

The  advent  of  a  fresh  brother  or  sister  soon  became 
a  usual  incident  of  home  life;  by  the  time  Richard 
proudly  put  on  his  first  midshipman 's  uniform  there  was 
a  circle  of  admiring  faces  to  wonder  at  the  sturdy,  merry 
sailor-brother;  when  he  came  home  after  a  three  years' 
cruise,  he  found  just  one  short  of  half  a  dozen  in  the 
nursery. 

"Enough  to  turn  a  man's  hair  gray,"  Belton  ob- 


34  RICHARD    ROSNY 

served  gloomily;  but  Edith  rejoiced  and  spoke  of  their 
beauty  and  cleverness,  with  the  usual  ending:  "But 
Richie,  darling,  I  look  to  you  for  comfort.  And  what  I 
have  suffered  during  these  cruel  years ! ' ' 

She  certainly  looked  as  if  she  had  suffered ;  there  was 
a  curious  repressed  anxiety,  even  terror,  in  her  face,  that 
made  Richard  wonder  if  nothing  could  make  a  woman 
happy. 

The  look  became  less  evident  during  that  holiday ;  Bel- 
ton  was  much  away,  and  Richard  was  constantly  with  his 
mother,  walking  and  talking,  reading,  rowing  and  sail- 
ing, and  visiting  the  poor,  as  in  the  old  cottage  days. 
Much  time  was  spent  with  the  children,  making  toys  for 
then  and  letting  them  make  a  slave  of  him. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  he  noticed  an  alteration  in  the 
easy,  good-natured  stepfather,  who  had  become  irritable 
and  morose,  and  whose  step  the  children  learned  to  dread 
and  fly,  though  he  petted  them  outrageously  at  intervals. 
Grave  childish  faults  Belton  would  ignore  or  laugh  at, 
while  some  innocent  indiscretion  or  infirmity  would  be 
met  by  such  a  terrific  box  on  the  ear  or  cuffing  as  made 
their  brother's  blood  boil,  though  Richard  was  not  above 
administering  just  and  judicious  cuffs  himself.  Their 
mother's  sole  thought  was  to  conceal  their  faults  and  keep 
them  out  of  their  father's  way,  a  treatment  most  shock- 
ing to  ideas  of  discipline  imbibed  on  board  a  man-of- 
war. 

At  sixteen  Richard  measured  six  feet;  he  was  broad 
of  chest,  strong  of  limb,  active  exceedingly  and  perfectly 
healthy,  with  a  genial  glance  and  sunny  smile  that  won 
friends  everywhere.  He  had  twice  saved  a  life  and  had 
more  than  once  been  in  command  under  fire.  He  was 
very  forward  with  his  studies,  which  cost  him  little 
trouble.  But  he  had  the  defects  of  young  blood  and 
great  strength. 

Such  a  lad  would  measure  his  stepfather  from  a  man's 
standpoint;  many  things  in  Belton  formerly  perplexing 
now  became  plain  to  Richard,  who  found  his  after-din- 


AN   OWN   BROTHER  35 

ner  conversation  more  amusing  than  edifying,  and  who 
would  have  enjoyed  it  more  from  any  one  but  his  moth- 
er's husband  and  the  children's  father,  positions  in  which 
the  most  rackety  youth  exacts  a  certain  amount  of  re- 
spectability. So  the  good-fellowship  between  them  was 
succeeded  by  a  sort  of  armed  neutrality.  "That  cub, 
Rosny,"  was  Belton's  usual  designation  of  his  stepson, 
who  was  accustomed  to  allude  to  him  to  intimate  friends 
as  "That  beast,  Belton." 

Belton  had  really  altered  and  not  for  the  better.  His 
very  comeliness  had  departed;  his  features  were  coars- 
ened, the  lines  of  his  figure  blurred  and  bulged.  He  was 
still  a  keen  sportsman,  though  a  less  certain  shot ;  he  still 
rode  to  hounds,  but  at  billiards  his  stroke  could  never  be 
counted  upon,  though  at  times  he  falsified  all  calculations 
by  a  steadily  brilliant  game.  His  temper  was  gloomy  in 
the  morning,  overcheerful  and  ill-balanced  at  noon,  con- 
tentious and  impatient  at  night — sometimes  more  than 
impatient.  "Don't  let  him  have  the  children  in  to- 
night," Edith  would  say  to  Richard.  "His  nerves  are 
all  ajar.  Liver  again." 

One  day  Richard  took  the  three  eldest  to  Wimbury 
and  rowed  them  out  to  the  lighthouse  while  Edith  visited 
some  of  her  old  cottage  friends;  then  they  picnicked  on 
the  cliff,  returning  in  the  dusk  of  a  glorious  autumn  day 
to  high  tea  in  the  dining-room,  an  irregularity  against 
Belton's  rule.  Afterward  one  last  game  was  played 
round  the  drawing-room  fire,  the  youngest  falling  down 
asleep  in  the  midst  of  it  and  being  carried  to  bed,  while 
the  other  two  climbed  their  brother's  knees,  determined 
to  sit  up  as  long  as  their  eyes  would  keep  open.  "Just 
for  once,"  their  mother  conceded,  "just  to-day." 

"Dust  once,"  Adeline  echoed  sleepily,  "cause  papa's 
away. ' ' 

"Such  a  jolly  day  we've  had,"  added  Gerald;  "no 
one  to  bother.  I  wish  he  was  always  away." 

"Wiss  him  always  away,"  Adeline  echoed,  drowsily 
nodding;  "wiss  there  wasn't  no  f avers,  never  no  more." 


36  RICHARD    ROSNY 

"You  young  reptiles,"  cried  Richard,  "I've  a  good 
mind  to  smack  the  pair  of  you.  You  are  not  to  talk  like 
that." 

' '  Only  fink, ' '  murmured  Adeline,  contentedly.  Edith 
said  nothing. 

Belton  had  started  for  Paris  that  morning;  bank 
business,  his  wife  carefully  explained  to  Richard,  often 
summoned  him  at  uncertain  intervals  to  that  city  of 
pleasure.  As  usual,  in  the  absence  of  the  head  of  the 
family,  the  mother  and  son  sat  up  late,  finding  more  to 
say  the  more  they  talked,  while  the  look  of  peace  on 
Edith 's  face,  the  return  of  youth  to  her  fading  features, 
and  sparkle  of  pleasure  to  her  eyes,  gave  Richard  a  feel- 
ing akin  to  pain.  They  had  been  reading;  the  reading 
had  led  them  to  a  discussion,  which  was  interspaced  with 
thoughtful  silences,  Richard  being  at  the  crude  spring 
of  mental  development  when  thoughts  form  with  bewil- 
dering rapidity,  rolling  back  on  themselves  in  a  per- 
petual change.  Edith  had  broken  away  from  the  narrow- 
ing meshes  of  personal  feeling;  Richard  listened,  happy 
at  her  escape  from  the  turbid  element  of  family  worries. 
All  was  hushed  in  the  pleasant  silence  of  an  exquisite 
autumn  night ;  one  shaded  lamp  near  the  glowing  hearth 
left  the  greater  part  of  the  room  in  a  darkness  broken 
by  the  white  glimmer  of  moonlight  from  tall,  uncur- 
tained windows,  through  which  pale  stars  and  moon- 
steeped  stretches  of  field  and  woodland  were  visible. 
Edith  laughed  out  like  a  child  at  something  he  said ;  she 
looked  young  and  attractive,  charmingly  dressed  with 
fresh  roses  in  her  corsage. 

Through  the  hush  following  her  joyous  laugh  came 
the  sound  of  approaching  wheels,  rumbling  ever  nearer 
and  louder. 

"Wer  reitet  so  spat  durch  Nacht  und  Wind?7'  Edith 
asked  lightly. 

The  wheels,  now  unmistakably  passing  under  the 
pine-trees,  drew  up  at  their  door.  Creaking  of  wire 
followed,  as  a  furtive  hand  set  the  door-bell  clanging 


37 

through  the  silent  house,  and  brought  them  to  the  win- 
dow, Edith  suddenly  pale. 

"Some  idiot  has  lost  his  bearings  and  put  in  here. 
Don 't  move,  Muffie.  I  '11  tackle  him, ' '  Richard  said,  go- 
ing quickly  to  the  door,  quickly  and  silently  followed 
by  his  mother. 

The  bolts  and  bars  were  soon  shot  back  and  the  door 
thrown  open.  A  closed  fly  stood  outside  in  the  dim 
light,  with  a  jaded  horse  and  a  driver  wralking  up  and 
down  by  its  side. 

"What's  up?"  Richard  asked  briskly. 

' '  Gemman  inside,  sir, ' '  the  driver  said,  pointing  with 
his  whip  to  the  fly;  "lost  his  way.  Soon  sleep  it  off. 
Bless  you,  it's  a  poor  heart  that  never  rejoices." 

Upon  this  he  opened  the  fly-door  without  further 
ceremony,  and  dragged  out  a  senseless,  grunting  figure 
with  a  darkened  but  too  familiar  face. 

Richard  turned  with  a  gasp  of  disgust  to  help  carry 
the  noxious  burden  in,  when,  to  his  horror  and  pain,  he 
perceived  the  ashen  face  and  piteous  glance  of  his  mother 
in  the  doorway. 

"Go  up-stairs  and  leave  him  to  me,  Muff,"  he  said 
gently.  "He  isn't  hurt.  Go  up-stairs,  dear." 

"Hurt?  Bless  you,  they  never  comes  to  no  harm," 
returned  the  driver.  "Keep  his  head  up  and  loosen  his 
collar  and  let  'im  be  till  morning  light,  and  no  questions 
asked.  Blest  if  I  didn't  think  he  was  hurt  first  thing, 
though.  My  hoss  shied  at  him  lying  like  a  log  on  the 
roadside.  Many  an  honest  chap  would  be  glad  of  half 
of  his  complaint.  You  trust  me.  I  won't  waken  no- 
body. Thankee,  sir,  and  good-night.  It's  worth  a  sov- 
ereign if  you  come  to  that. ' ' 

The  door  closed  softly,  the  fly  rumbled  away,  Richard 
struck  a  light  and  disclosed  the  sorry  spectacle  of  the 
master  of  the  house,  stretched  on  a  lounge,  purple-faced, 
heavily  breathing  and  covered  with  dust  and  dirt. 

"Oh,  Richard!"  sobbed  the  wretched  wife;  "this 
is  worse  than  widowhood." 


38  RICHARD   ROSNY 

" Worse  than  those  joy-bells,"  Richard  thought. 

They  carried  him  up  between  them.  He  pushed  his 
mother  out  of  the  room  and  did  what  was  necessary,  with 
contemptuous  carefulness  and  a  hard  look  on  his  face. 
Then  he  led  his  mother  back  to  the  drawing-room  and 
silently  kissed  her,  a  thing  he  rarely  did,  and,  placing 
her  in  the  low  deep  chair  she  had  just  left,  sat  quietly  by, 
letting  her  pour  out  the  fulness  of  her  long-burdened 
breast,  accusing,  excusing,  deprecating,  pitying,  con- 
demning, condoning,  hardly  knowing  what  she  said. 

' '  He  was  so  different  when  we  married, ' '  she  sobbed. 
1 1  Always  good  to  you.  It  is  only  since — since — the  money 
troubles —  There  was  an  execution  in  the  house — last 
autumn — that  is  why  I  wanted  you  to  take  away  your 
father's  sword  and  picture — Richie,  darling,  I  did  so 
hope  this  might  be  kept  from  your  knowledge.  I  am  so 
afraid  for — Gerald.  The  boy  is  so  quick.  Adeline,  too, 
is  clever,  far  beyond  her  age.  I  wish  they  had  never  been 
born." 

"Come,  cheer  up,  Muffle.  It  may  never  happen 
again.  Perhaps  it  was  an  accident.  Very  easy  to  be 
overtaken — tired,  seedy,  nothing  to  eat ;  that  sort  of  thing 
will  happen  sometimes,  don't  you  know." 

The  lamp  burned  out  with  smoke  and  sputter,  and  the 
Great  Bear  hung  its  large  jewels  with  a  friendly  sparkle 
out  in  the  sky  north  of  the  east  windows,  before  the  un- 
fortunate woman  had  sobbed  out  her  bitter  tale,  com- 
forted by  the  silent  sympathy  in  Richard 's  healthy,  hon- 
est face  and  dark-blue  eyes,  and  Richard,  dizzy-eyed  and 
drowsy,  with  the  joy-bells  that  had  so  harassed  his  child- 
hood pealing  in  his  memory,  flung  himself  on  his  bed 
under  the  sword  and  picture  of  his  gallant  young  father, 
consumed  by  indignant  pity  for  the  delicate  and  sensi- 
tive creature  he  seemed  born  to  cherish  and  sustain.  ' '  Not 
Hyperion,  but  Diana,  to  a  satyr, ' '  he  thought,  unable  to 
forget  the  two  faces  he  had  seen  in  the  hall  in  the  dead  of 
night. 


CHAPTER   IV 

BELTOX,    LAKING   &   CO. 

BELTON,  LAKIXG  &  Co.  were  an  old-established  bank- 
ing firm  of  unquestionable  solvency,  always  unshaken  by 
the  squalls  and  storms  of  modern  finance,  and  weathering 
crises  such  as  overthrow  many  a  sound  and  firmly  based 
business  with  gallant  ease  and  haughty  calm.  They 
were  to  the  county  almost  what  the  Bank  of  England  is 
to  the  nation.  These  new  joint-stock  banking  companies 
filled  them  with  tolerant  contempt  as  upstart  products  of 
a  degenerate  day.  Yet  Horace  Belton  was  a  partner  in 
that  immaculate  firm,  and  the  fact  filled  Rosny  with  ever- 
growing wonder.  For  money  seemed  to  grow  scarcer  and 
ever  scarcer  at  the  Pines,  where  the  inmates  still  con- 
tinued to  increase  in  number,  where  bills  continually 
rained,  often  headed  with  an  ominous  "Bill  delivered," 
and  where,  at  every  fresh  holiday  he  spent  there  with 
his  mother,  Richard  observed  increasing  shabbiness  and 
dilapidation. 

Meditating  on  these  things,  he  went  into  Belton,  La- 
king  &  Co.  's  head  office  on  some  small  errand  of  his  own 
one  day,  and,  looking  round  the  handsomely  appointed, 
spacious  hall,  with  its  array  of  clerks  and  cashiers,  busy 
each  at  his  desk  or  counter,  steady,  grave,  and  diligent, 
was  grateful  to  a  destiny  that  had  cast  his  own  lot  in 
pleasanter  places,  wondering  how  these  young  men  bore 
the  irksome  confinement,  and  especially  wondering  if 
Belton 's  youth  could  possibly  have  passed  through  the 
discipline  of  an  occupation  so  steady  and  apparently  un- 
exciting. He  was  turning  to  leave  the  bank,  when  a 
messenger  from  an  inner  office  approached  him  and  asked 

89 


40  RICHARD    ROSNY 

him  to  be  so  good  as  to  step  into  the  manager's  room,  an 
apartment  he  had  heard  of  as  the  sweating  chamber,  from 
the  mental  agonies  there  endured  by  the  impecunious, 
the  extravagant,  or  the  fraudulent. 

"I'm  an  infant  and  only  just  ashore,  so  I'm  flush  of 
cash,"  he  reflected,  as  he  swung,  with  a  seaman's  roll 
in  his  firm  stride  and  a  gallant  carelessness  in  his  open 
face,  into  the  august  presence  of  the  head  of  the  firm. 
He  had  been  there  once  before,  introduced  as  "Young 
Rosny,  my  wife's  son,"  since  when  he  had  two  or  three 
times  at  intervals  spoken  with  Mr.  Godfrey  Belton,  who 
was  an  occasional  visitor  at  the  Pines. 

The  tall,  gray-haired  senior  partner  and  manager 
threw  a  kind  but  searching  glance  at  the  young  guest  on 
his  entrance,  and  withdrew  it  as  if  satisfied  with  what 
he  saw.  Rosny,  though  not  come  to  his  full  strength, 
was  powerfully  built;  the  strength  and  salt  of  the  sea 
was  in  his  handsome  face,  deep  blue  eyes,  broad,  clear 
brow,  firm,  smiling  lips,  and  crisp-waved  hair.  His 
height  was  six  feet  six,  his  shapely  figure  well  set  off  by 
the  simplicity  and  perfect  cut  which  distinguishes  the 
dress  of  men  who  understand  the  proprieties  of  costume. 

"  It  is  long  since  we  have  met,  Mr.  Rosny, ' '  the  banker 
said,  partly  rising  from  his  chair  and  offering  a  courteous 
hand  and  welcoming  smile ;  ' '  you  were  a  boy  when  last  I 
saw  you ;  you  have  now,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  every  right 
to  be  styled  a  man. ' ' 

"Not  quite.  Not  for  another  fortnight.  Then  I  leave 
off  being  an  infant  for  good. ' ' 

"A  golden  age  in  more  senses  than  one,"  Mr.  Belton 
said,  with  a  kind  expression  in  his  bright  and  keen  eyes ; 
"who  wouldn't  be  one-and- twenty  1  I  have  a  slight  re- 
membrance of  your  father,  whom  you  strongly  resemble, 
at  that  happy  age.  But,  as  I  need  not  remind  you,"  he 
added,  with  some  hesitation,  as  in  search  of  some  fitting 
phrase,  "coming  of  age  brings  many  responsibilities." 

"Aye.  You  lose  your  guardian  and  look  after  your 
own  property,  if  you've  got  any." 


BELTON,  LAKING   &   CO.          41 

"If  you  have  property,"  Mr.  Belton  repeated  ab- 
sently, slightly  turning  his  revolving  chair,  so  that  his 
line  gray  head  and  clean-cut  features  showed  in  profile 
to  Richard — ' '  if  you  have  property, ' '  he  repeated,  turn- 
ing back,  after  a  prolonged  gaze  in  the  direction  of  a 
window  commanding  the  busy  street,  to  meet  Richard's 
open  gaze,  "and  if  you  sign  legal  documents  at  one- 
and-twenty,  your  signature  is  binding.  But  young  men 
do  not  always  realize  that,  Mr.  Rosny,  especially,  if  I  may 
be  permitted  to  say  so,  young  men  of  your  gallant  pro- 
fession. Sea  air  apparently  has  some  subtle  influence  on 
the  value  people  attach  to  money ;  it  appears  to  make  them 
careless,  open-handed,  open-hearted.  And — ah — sailors 
often  fall  a  ready  prey  to  designing  persons." 

"Well,  I  hope  I'm  not  as  simple  as  all  that,"  Richard 
replied  with  a  boyish,  hearty  laugh.  ' '  And  I  sha  'n  't  be 
a  Croesus  exactly,  though  I'm  blest  if  I  know  what  I 
shall  have." 

Mr.  Belton  sighed ;  he  looked  at  the  blotting-pad  be- 
fore him,  absently  lifting  and  replacing  a  paper-weight, 
and  sighed  again. 

' '  What  I  am  about  to  tell  you, ' '  he  said  at  last,  "  is  in 
strict  confidence,  as  one  gentleman,  as  one  man  of  honor, 
to  another.  Under  the  circumstances,  I  owe  you  such 
confidence.  Your  responsibilities,  my  dear  young  man, 
are  greater  than  perhaps  you  are  aware.  Your  mother 
depends  greatly  upon  you ;  her  other  children  are  young, 
their  needs  are  many.  Women  do  not  understand  busi- 
ness ;  their  conduct  is  regulated  by  their  feelings.  Where 
men  think,  women  feel.  Women  are  unable  to  weigh  the 
justice  of  courses  of  action.  Thus  the  counsel  of  a  mother, 
and  especially  of  a  mother  so  unfortunately  situated,  in 
money  matters,  is  often  misleading.  Ah,  in  plain  words, 
Mr.  Rosny,  I  warn  you  against  entering  upon  any  mone- 
tary transaction  with  my  nephew,  Horace  Belton. 
Never  sign  any  paper  at  his  request,  without  submitting 
it  first  to  your  man  of  business  or  taking  counsel  with 
your  guardian,  your  uncle,  Mr.  Adrian  Rosny,  who  is 


42 

a  sound  business  man,  as  well  as  a  distinguished  officer  in 
the  Indian  Civil  Service.  I  speak,  not  as  a  member  of 
this  house,  in  which,  as  you  are  aware,  my  nephew,  Hor- 
ace, has  been  a  partner  from  his  youth;  I  speak  as  the 
near  relative  of  the  man  to  whom  your  mother,  -unfortu- 
nately I  fear  for  herself,  is  married." 

"My  stepfather,"  said  Richard,  slowly  and  stiffly, 
' '  has  always  been  most  kind  and  indulgent  to  me. ' ' 

"Quite  so.  His  stepson  gives  him  all  due  honor  and 
would  not  willingly  or  unnecessarily  refer  to  faults  of 
which  he  can  not,  and  ought  not  to,  fail  to  be  aware.  His 
stepson  is  a  gentleman,  a  member  of  a  profession  in 
which  honor  is  greatly  prized;  he  is  to  be  trusted  with 
matters  of  the  greatest  delicacy,  and,  having  arrived  at 
man's  estate,  must  not  shrink  from  the  knowledge  of 
things  very  properly  concealed  from  him  in  earlier  years. 
There  are  men,  Mr.  Rosny,  who  are  born  without  the 
money-sense;  Horace  Belton  is  one  of  these.  Of  the 
duties  and  obligations,  of  the  values,  the  moralities,  in 
short,  concerned  in  the  acquisition  and  possession  of 
money,  in  spending  and  distributing  wealth,  he  has  ab- 
solutely no  conception  whatever.  He  regards  money  as 
other  men  regard  the  common  air  around  them — a  neces- 
sity and  a  possession  to  all,  within  reach  of  all,  and  of 
which  none  can,  by  enjoying  it,  rob  any  other.  He  means 
well,  but  is  none  the  less  dangerous  for  that.  For  in- 
stance, he  can  not  conceive  that  honor  has  anything  to  do 
with  money;  the  two  things  do  not  appear  to  him  to  be 
capable  of  affecting  each  other.  When  I  speak  of  money 
I  include  every  description  of  property,  of  all  of  which 
money  is  the  symbol,  the  common  denominator,  the  ex- 
pression. Money  to  Horace  is  simply  metal  or  paper  in 
a  convenient  shape,  a  sufficient  quantity  of  which  he  holds 
himself  entitled  to  possess  without  being  bound  to  take 
any  steps  to  acquire  or  retain  it.  When  he  steps  out  of 
a  hansom  or  into  a  train  or  hotel,  he  feels  it  to  be  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  fitness  of  things  that  certain  of  these 
pieces  of  metal  should  be  forthcoming  from  his  pockets ; 


BELTON,  LAKING   &   CO.          43 

but  he  never  concerns  himself  as  to  the  manner  in  which 
they  came  there.  When  he  goes  into  a  shop  or  writes  an 
order  to  a  merchant,  on  the  other  hand,  he  holds  the  pres- 
ence of  metal  or  paper  in  his  pocket  to  be  unnecessary, 
because  payment  for  his  requirements  is  not  immediately 
demanded.  Credit  must  appear  to  my  nephew  in  the 
light  of  a  powerful  and  beneficent  deity,  supplying  the 
majority  of  his  needs  and  demanding  nothing  from  him 
in  return — except  on  rare  occasions,  when  a  day  of  reck- 
oning, in  the  form  of  County  Court  summonses,  bills  of 
sale,  and  the  irruption  of  bailiffs  into  his  house,  fills  him 
with  a  fine  indignation.  I  am  not  sure, ' '  added  Mr.  Bel- 
ton,  inspired  by  his  subject  to  the  extent  of  forgetting 
the  presence  of  his  auditor,  "that  Horace  would  not 
think  it  sinful — that  is,  if  he  thinks  anything  sinful — 
positively  sinful,  to  pay  a  bill  till  he  was  at  least  on  the 
verge  of  being  County  Courted.  But  you  may  have  ob- 
served my  nephew's  eccentricities  concerning  the  uses 
and  values  of  money  yourself,  Mr.  Rosny,"  he  added, 
hastily  pulling  himself  up. 

' '  They  always  seem  deuced  hard  up ;  I  've  noticed  that 
much. ' ' 

''There  is  not  the  slightest  necessity  for  the  state  of 
affairs  to  which  you  refer,  my  dear  lad.  My  nephew  has 
a  settled  and  steady  income,  amply  sufficient  for  his  fam- 
ily and  position;  what  he  does  with  it,  the  Lord  only 
knows.  But  we  may  all  know  this,  that  to  lend  or  give  to 
such  people  as  he  is  worse  than  waste.  Throw  money 
into  the  sea  if  you  like,  but  do  not  lend  it  to  Horace  Bel- 
ton,  or  to  any  one  depending  for  maintenance  upon  him. ' ' 

' '  It  seems  a  queer  failing  for  a  banker, ' '  said  Richard, 
rising  to  go. 

"He  ought  never  to  have  been  in  the  business.  He 
has  not  for  some  years  had  any  share  in  the  management. 
He  was  never  anything  but  a  drag  and  a  hindrance  to  it. 
The  youngest  clerk  in  the  house  is  of  more  use.  But  my 
brother  was  set  upon  it ;  it  was  the  heritage  of  his  son ; 
he  thought  the  thorough  business  training  of  our  desks 


44  RICHARD   ROSNY 

and  ledgers,  and  the  habit  of  steady  daily  work,  would 
make  a  man  of  Horace.  It  is  an  excellent  training  truly, 
but  you  remember  the  adage,  'You  can  not  cobble  a  silk 
purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.'  ' 

"Or  a  sow's  ear  out  of  a  silk  purse,"  Richard  re- 
flected, when  he  walked  down  the  street,  wondering  what 
to  make  of  this  communication.  ' '  That  fine  old  boy  must 
have  meant  a  good  deal  more  than  he  said, ' '  was  his  reflec- 
tion. "I  fear  that  my  valued  stepfather  can  be  little  bet- 
ter than  a  swindler.  So  poor  old  Belton  can't  think  what 
his  nephew  does  with  his  money  ?  Well,  I  could  give  him 
points  there.  But  how  they  can  keep  such  a  customer 
aboard  the  firm  beats  me.  There  will  be  an  ugly  smash 
some  day.  I  wonder  if  poor  darling  Muff  has  any  notion 
of  the  state  of  things  ?  I  suppose  he  can 't  touch  her  tiny 
settlement,  which  is  a  little  comfort.  Oh,  Muffle,  they 
shouldn't  have  rung  those  blessed  joy-bells  that  day  in 
Wimbury  steeple.  They  really  shouldn't.  I  must  have 
howled  prophetically. ' ' 

Richard  went  straight  from  the  bank  to  his  uncle  and 
guardian,  Adrian  Rosny,  who  was  just  now  in  England 
in  a  little  country  house  a  few  miles  from  Ingrestone 
with  his  wife  and  family,  some  of  whom  were  to  con- 
tinue to  live  there  when  he  returned  to  India,  and  with 
whom  Richard  was  to  spend  a  couple  of  days  before  go- 
ing home  to  the  Pines. 

"It  is  but  fair  that  we  should  see  something  of  you, 
Dick, ' '  the  uncle  said.  ' '  When  once  your  mother  has  you 
at  the  Pines  she  will  not  be  overwilling  to  let  you  go. 
And  it  is  not  often  that  you  and  I  chance  to  be  at  home 
together.  When  did  I  see  you  last  ?  Four  or  five  years 
ago,  was  it?  Well,  I've  been  longer  than  that  without  a 
sight  of  my  own  children.  It's  a  curious  state  of  affairs, 
but  we  old  Indians  are  used  to  it,  like  the  eels,  who  think 
nothing  of  being  skinned." 

"Have  you  seen  my  mother?"  was  the  first  thing 
Richard  asked  his  uncle  when  they  were  alone  together. 

"We've  exchanged  calls.     To  tell  the  truth,  Dick, 


BELTON,  LAKING   &   CO.  45 

it's  not  easy  to  be  very  friendly  at  that  house.  Belton 
and  I  are  not  sympathetic ;  we  have  nothing  in  common. 
Very  natural,  don't  you  know,  it's  a  sort  of  step-relation- 
ship. The  first  husband's  family  are  never  welcome  to 
the  second  husband.  A  brother's  wife's  second  husband 
is  scarcely  a  persona  grata.  It 's  a  long  drive  to  the  Pines, 
fortunately.  Your  mother  is  very  well  and  the  children 
coming  on — how  they  spring  up  in  a  couple  of  years !  I 
wanted  to  have  some  of  them  to  stay  at  Merstone,  but — I 
could  hardly  let  your  cousins  accept  invitations  to  the 
Pines." 

"  It 's  awfully  hard  on  the  poor  little  beggars.  They 
must  grow  up  without  friends.  No  one  can  ever  go  to 
the  Pines — unless  there  has  been  a  great  change  since  I 
was  there  last.  Sometimes  they  suggest — Mr.  Belton  has 
always  been  civil  to  me — that  I  should  bring  a  messmate 
home.  Poor,  dear  mother  would  enjoy  seeing  my  friends, 
and  she's  so  charming.  But  it  can't  be  done.  I  say, 
Uncle  Adrian,  what  on  earth  made  my  mother  marry  that 
man?" 

" Nature,  Dick.  A  woman  of  her  disposition  can't 
stand  alone ;  she  wants  a  man  to  cling  to.  She  was  very 
happy  with  your  father.  They  had  never  had  a  wry 
word.  But  Charlie  was  an  ideal  husband.  She  was 
heart-broken  when  she  lost  him ;  but  she  was  young.  A 
young  woman  can 't  go  on  being  heart-broken.  It 's  either 
consumption  or  a  second  marriage.  Edith  was  not  con- 
sumptive. And  I  was  in  India.  But  I  don't  know  that 
I  could  have  forbidden  the  bans;  it  was  an  excellent 
match.  Partner  in  Belton,  Laking  &  Co. — why,  we  all 
thought  she  was  marrying  money." 

"Does  any  one  know  where  the  money  goes?"  asked 
Richard,  who  thought  he  knew. 

"He  was  always  extravagant  and  careless.  And  he 
has  many  expensive  hobbies.  At  one  time  it  was  fancy 
poultry  and  fancy  cattle-breeding.  Then  it  was  horses. 
Then  he  is  a  collector — of  rare  books  that  he  never  opens 
— of  coins,  gems,  antiquities.  Then  he  writes,  don't  you 
4 


46  RICHARD    ROSNY 

know,  and  publishes  at  his  own  expense — of  course,  you 
know  how  slight  and  amateurish  these  little  essays  and 
travel  and  sporting  sketches  are — but  they  must  always 
appear  in  the  most  expensive  way,  sumptuous  bindings, 
hand-made  paper  editions  de  luxe,  in  short.  Still,  with  all 
this,  your  poor  stepfather  must  have  a  perfect  genius  for 
getting  rid  of  money  to  make  it  fly  as  he  does.  I  won- 
der if  he  speculates  ?  I  fancy  he  was  never  anything  but 
a  sleeping  partner  in  the  bank. ' ' 

"But  what  could  a  refined  and  delicate-natured  wo- 
man like  my  mother  have  in  common  with  a  man  of  his 
character,  a  loose  fish  like  that  ?  How  could  she  ?  Don't 
good  women  know  character  by  instinct  ? ' ' 

Adrian  Rosny  looked  at  the  boy's  brown,  smooth  face 
and  thoughtful  brow  with  amazement.  "Not  always," 
he  replied  with  gravity,  "else  there  would  be  fewer  un- 
happy wives.  But  I  think  men  know  men.  And  I  must 
confess  that  I  was  not  unfavorably  impressed  with  Hor- 
ace Belton.  He  was  pleasant,  genial,  accomplished,  well- 
bred,  a  good  shot,  a  good  horseman,  shallow  and  flippant 
certainly,  but  with  nothing  against  him,  certainly  noth- 
ing serious.  That  very  regrettable  weakness  had  cer- 
tainly not  appeared  in  the  early  years  of  his  marriage, 
when  I  first  made  his  acquaintance.  What  could  have 
developed  it?  There  is  generally  some  cause,  Dick. 
Some  misfortune,  loss  of  hope,  bereavement,  loss  of  self- 
respect,  disappointment;  some  hopeless  dreariness  that 
drives  a  man  desperate.  A  man  is  sent  to  some  isolated 
station  with  nothing  to  do  and  fever  to  poison  his  blood, 
or  he  makes  some  irreparable  mistake.  Then  he  takes 
to  drink.  But  all  seems  to  have  gone  well  with  poor  Bel- 
ton.  A  charming  wife,  to  whom  he  appeared  genuinely 
attached,  a  fine,  healthy  family;  he  never  lost  a  child. 
The  bank  business  has  been  increasingly  prosperous ;  you 
see  fresh  branches  flourishing  all  over  three  counties; 
outwardly,  one  might  say  of  him  that  he  'comes  in  no 
misfortune  like  other  folk.'  But  one  never  can  tell, 
Dick,  one  never  can  tell.  Take  one  of  these  cigars,  you'll 


BELTON,  LAKING   &   CO.          47 

find  them  soft  and  mild.  Ah !  you  like  a  fuller  flavor  ? 
Judge  gently,  if  at  all.  I've  seen  so  many  fine,  lovable 
young  fellows  go  wrong,  go  utterly  to  the  dogs  for  what 
seemed  a  mere  nothing — a  push  toward  the  brink,  and 
over  they  go — as  we,  who  have  had  no  such  push,  might. 
Judge  gently." 

They  were  walking  up  and  down  under  the  great 
spreading  plane  tree  on  one  of  the  lawns,  now  meeting 
the  shower  of  slant  sun-rays  that  pierced  the  broad  leaf- 
age and  made  it  glow  like  living  chrysolite,  now  seeing 
its  shadow  stretched  long  and  longer  before  them  on  sun- 
lit grass  and  flower-bed,  sun-dial  and  sun-bright  trees; 
the  odor  of  rose  and  mignonette  blended  with  crushed 
turf  and  cigars,  swallows  wheeled  and  swifts  darted  with 
thin,  sharp  cries  across  the  upper  blue  of  the  sky.  The 
house,  half-smothered  in  bloom  and  greenery,  basked 
with  open  windows  and  drawn  blinds  in  the  sun-glow; 
women  and  children  came  and  went,  sitting  or  playing, 
with  happy  voices  in  the  shade.  The  peace  and  pleas- 
antness, the  feeling  of  home  and  security  in  all  around, 
mingling  with  the  kindness  and  large-hearted  ring  in 
his  uncle's  deep  voice,  suddenly  struck  sharp  upon 
Richard's  sense,  sharp  with  a  pang  of  envy  and  fear 
and  longing,  and  a  miserable  feeling  of  loss  and  con- 
trast. 

He  looked  at  the  thin,  dark  face,  with  its  fine-cut  in- 
telligence and  serene  spiritual  glance,  observed  the  fine 
presence,  and  the  noble  air  that  comes  from  an  eminent 
position  and  the  habit  of  command,  all  graced  by  that 
Christian  self-forgetfulness  and  modesty  which  is  the 
basis  of  what  is  summed  up  in  the  word  gentleman,  and 
sighed.  His  uncle  straightened  his  tall,  spare  figure — tall 
as  Richard 's,  but  built  on  slighter  lines,  dried  by  Indian 
suns  and  sapped  by  a  strenuous  life — and  looked  with  af- 
fectionate tolerance,  as  he  replaced  the  cigar-case  in  his 
pocket,  at  the  young,  troubled  face,  fresh  and  vivid  and 
richly  hued  under  its  sunburn  and  glowing  with  the 
passion  and  impatience  of  youth. 


48  RICHARD    ROSNY 

''Youth  is  sometimes  hard  and  often  intolerant,"  he 
said;  "untempted,  untried  youth." 

Richard's  face  had  darkened;  he  crushed  the  match- 
box flat  in  his  hand,  so  that  the  matches  kindled  and  sent 
out  sulphurous,  smoldering  fume,  that  burned  him  and 
made  him  dash  them  to  the  grass,  into  which  he  stamped 
them  with  a  furious  foot.  "I  hate  the  beast,"  he  cried, 
in  a  quivering  voice,  ' '  I  hate  him  to  death ! ' ' 

"Natural,  very  natural.  But  futile,  Dick,  futile  and 
feeble.  Try  to  pity,  learn  to  pity. ' ' 

"Pity?  Pity,  Uncle  Adrian?  Pity  is  not  for  him. 
Heaven  knows  I've  learned  to  pity.  I  pity  her,  oh,  God,  I 
pity  her,  pity,  pity  her!  And  Gerald — who  wouldn't 
pity  the  boy  ?  Oh,  a  splendid  boy !  And  pretty  Addie 
and  the  rest.  Don't  talk  of  pity.  Think  of  those  help- 
less things;  that  sweet,  refined,  delicate  woman — and 
that — that — that  hog!"  he  shouted. 

* '  Come,  come,  old  boy.  Try  the  cigar ;  you  '11  find  it 
mild.  Here's  a  light.  Your  cousins  have  been  looking 
forward  for  weeks  to  annexing  you  for  their  tennis. 
Well,  fume  away,  then  let  off  the  steam.  Fie,  f o,  f um ! 
I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Englishman !  This  is  your  true 
Ercles  vein,  Dick.  Come,  old  lad,  no  man  lets  himself 
go.  Women  and  children  can't  help  it.  We  Rosnys  have 
to  hold  ourselves  in,  don't  you  know;  plenty  of  brim- 
stone in  the  blood." 

Richard  was  ghastly  white  under  his  bronze,  his  stal- 
wart body  quivered,  a  faint  sob  shook  his  deep  chest. 
His  uncle  took  his  arm  and  paced  the  leaf -shadowed  turf 
in  silence,  smoking  pensively  till  Richard  calmed  a  little 
and  spoke  in  a  more  natural  voice. 

' '  If  you  knew  my  mother,  Uncle  Adrian ;  if  you  saw 
her  devotion,  her  unselfishness,  and,  oh! — her  misery. 
She — a  woman  of  intellect,  of  social  charm — condemned 
to  that  squalid  suffering,  that  degraded  companionship, 
condemned  to  see  those  children — poor  little  beggars — 
ill-treated,  neglected,  spoiled,  dragged  up  anyhow !  Oh, 
if  the  brute  would  but  drink  himself  to  death ! ' ' 


BELTON,  LAKING   &   CO.          49 

"No,  Dick,  no.     Not  that." 

' '  Such  things  ought  not  to  be  possible, ' '  the  boy  con- 
tinued. "Consider  Aunt  Margaret  in  my  mother's  posi- 
tion. Think  of  it.  Fancy  it.  And  my  mother  so  sen- 
sitive, so  dainty  in  all  her  ways  and  thoughts.  Diana  to 
a  Satyr  and  no  mistake.  My  mother  is  a  good  woman, 
Uncle  Adrian. ' ' 

' '  Most  unselfish.  Most  devoted.  Make  her  as  happy 
as  you  can,  Dick.  Her  trials  are  many  and  she  has  only 
you  to  look  to  for  earthly  comfort.  But  things  are  not 
as  bad  as  you  think.  Belton  is  not  by  any  means  so  bad. 
Of  course,  he  has  that  deplorable  weakness.  But  he  has 
good  points.  And — he  has  not  been  fortunate  in  his 
choice  of  a  wife.  You  needn  't  flare  up.  A  worse  woman 
might  have  made  a  better  wife.  An  unfortunate  mar- 
riage ;  but  a  marriage  still.  Try  to  think  the  best  of  that 
poor  man  and  be  as  civil  as  you  can  to  your  mother's 
husband  for  her  sake.  Shut  your  eyes  to  weaknesses. 
Cursed  was  Canaan.  Life,  one  finds  as  one  grows  older — 
the  art  of  life — consists  chiefly  in  tolerating  the  failings 
of  those  around  us.  Human  intercourse  consists  in  mu- 
tual forbearance.  Human  kindness  is  based  on  pity. 
"We  admire  in  youth,  we  pity  in  age.  For  we  all  need 
pity,  Dick,  every  one  of  us." 

' '  Hm !  Not  beasts  who  snatch  at  every  swinish  en- 
joyment they  can  find  and  lay  waste  the  lives  of  women 
and  children  who  depend  on  them.  Not  beasts  who — 
Well,  well !  No  use  to  howl  over  it,  as  you  say.  I  dare 
say  I  shall  be  civil  to  the  brute  and  he  to  me.  But  if  I  see 
him  kick  one  of  them  for  nothing  again — by  George " 

"Better  not,  Dick,  better  not.  It  would  do  them  no 
good,  and  you  couldn't  stay  in  the  man's  house  if  it 
once  came  to  blows.  I  '11  try  to  get  him  to  put  Gerald  in 
the  navy.  He  and  Archie  are  to  go  to  a  good  prepara- 
tory school  next  term  with  our  Charlie  and  Harry.  By 
the  way,  you've  been  lucky,  Dick;  your  few  years'  serv- 
ice have  been  stuffed  with  good  chances.  Wherever  a 
naval  gun  has  to  be  fired  in  earnest  your  ship  always 


50 

seems  to  be  there.  Tell  me  about  the^West  African  busi- 
ness. ' ' 

Richard  felt  better  after  this  explosion  and  made  no 
further  reference  to  family  troubles  during  his  visit,  nor, 
indeed,  had  he  ever  done  so  before.  But  Merstone,  an 
ideally  happy  and  harmonious  household,  overflowing 
with  boys  and  girls  at  home  for  those  rare  holidays  in 
which  Anglo-Indian  families  occasionally  meet  under  one 
roof,  was  a  bad  preparation  for  the  Pines,  the  inmates 
of  which  were  in  the  habit  of  seeing  far  too  much  of  one 
another.  A  Rosny  among  Rosnys,  and  popular  among 
the  young  ones,  as  the  sailor  cousin  who  had  been  all 
over  the  world  and  could  do  everything,  he  felt  more  at 
home  at  Merstone  than  in  his  mother's  house,  where  no 
one  bore  his  name,  and  where  he  missed  the  intimate  com- 
panionship of  a  man  of  varied  experience  and  cultivated 
intellect,  of  sterling  character  and  the  exquisite  courtesy 
and  tact  characteristic  of  Indian  civilians. 

Yet  he  could  not  but  be  touched  by  his  reception  at 
Ingrestone.  He  had  seen  none  of  the  Beltons  for  three 
years ;  and  his  mother  met  him  at  the  station,  too  deeply 
moved  to  give  way  to  her  feelings  in  public.  She  could 
only  take  his  strong  hand  silently  and  silently  kiss  him, 
unable  to  withdraw  her  eyes  from  their  eager  feast  on 
the  face  so  long  missed  and  so  much  developed  by  three 
years  of  action  and  study,  yet  the  same  familiar,  friendly 
face,  as  that  of  the  first  baby  she  brought  into  the  world 
in  joy  and  pride,  with  the  same  love  and  courage  looking 
from  the  deep  blue  eyes.  It  was  rest  and  security  merely 
to  look  at  the  stalwart  young  figure  and  hear  the  deep 
boom  of  his  cheery  voice. 

"How  are  you,  Muff?  I'm  blest  if  you  don't  look 
younger  than  ever,"  was  all  he  said,  but  it  was  enough 
to  last  all  the  way  to  the  Pines,  whither  they  drove  in 
silence  and  content,  and  where  they  were  received  with 
a  joyous  shout  from  a  crowd  of  small  faces  looking  over 
and  through  the  gate. 

"What's  all  this?"  was  the  gruff  salutation  of  the 


BELTON,  LAKING   &  CO.          51 

tall  brother,  standing  at  the  house-door  with  children 
swarming  all  round  and  upon  him,  Addie  standing  on 
the  balustrade  post  and  pulling  down  his  face  to  kiss, 
Gerald  and  Archie  thumping  him  in  an  ecstasy  of  wel- 
come, and  various  smaller  ones  clinging  to  his  legs  and 
arms.  "Where  do  all  these  kids  come  from?  Who 
do  they  belong  to?  Why  doesn't  somebody  smack 
them?" 

"Witty,  Witty,  good  old  Wit,"  was  the  cry  with 
which  he  was  dragged  into  the  hall,  pulled  on  to  a  seat 
and  danced  round  by  the  bigger  ones,  protesting  that  he 
didn't  know  the  boy  and  girl  of  ten  and  eleven,  and  ask- 
ing what  had  become  of  Gerald  and  Adeline,  allowing 
the  girls  to  kiss  him,  and  bestowing  a  few  affectionate 
cuffs  on  the  boys. 

"What  have  oo  dot  in  oo  pottet?"  was  shouted. 
"Where  are  my  shark's  teeth?  Where's  my  Indian  ca- 
noe ? ' '  while  the  luggage  was  being  thumped  down  in  the 
hall  and  bumped  up  the  stairs  under  a  running  fire  of 
conjecture  as  to  its  contents. 

Mrs.  Belton  sat  in  the  broad  path  of  sunshine  that 
streamed  in  through  the  open  door  and  continued  to 
feast  her  eyes  on  her  handsome  sailor,  the  contents  of 
whose  rifled  pockets  were  being  appropriated  with  joy- 
ous cries  in  spite  of  cuffs  and  threats.  The  merry  tumult 
was  at  its  height,  Adeline  and  Gerald  at  last  catching 
hands  and  swinging  each  other  round  in  their  excitement, 
Addie 's  tangle  of  sunny  curls  flying  out  like  a  Moenad's 
hair,  when  a  shadow  fell  across  this  scene  of  harmless 
riot,  and  there,  in  the  doorway,  blocking  out  the  sun- 
shine, stood  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  master  of  the  house. 
At  the  sight  of  those  stern  eyes  every  face  fell,  and  the 
hall  was  emptied  in  a  moment,  as  if  by  magic,  of  all  but 
Mrs.  Belton  and  Richard. 

Rosny  was  surprised  at  the  friendliness  of  his  step- 
father 's  reception,  pleasantly  surprised  to  find  him  more 
like  his  old  genial  self  and  less  uncertain  in  temper,  until, 
a  few  days  after  the  twenty-first  birthday,  he  was  asked 


52  RICHARD   ROSNY 

in  a  careless,  offhand  manner,  just"  to  put  his  name  to 
a  bit  of  paper,  a  mere  legal  form ;  then  he  was  surprised 
no  more.  But  less  of  his  time  than  usual  was  spent  at 
Ingrestone;  business — a  word  as  interpreted  by  male 
relatives  too  familiar  to  poor  Edith — often  called  Rich- 
ard to  town;  there  were  long-standing  engagements  to 
visit  old  friends;  now  that  Uncle  Adrian  was  living  in 
the  neighborhood,  it  was  a  duty  to  look  him  up,  irrespec- 
tive of  business  visits  in  connection  with  the  long  guard- 
ianship now  coming  to  an  end. 

No  one  knew  that  one  of  these  visits  was  marked  by 
an  exceedingly  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  for  Richard,  in 
which  there  was  a  serious  calling  to  account  respecting 
debts  incurred  in  a  way  difficult  to  explain  and  far  from 
satisfactory  to  the  uncle  and  guardian.  But  the  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour,  as  Dick  expressed  it,  was  in  the  bill, 
an  incident  that  commonly  befalls  spirited  youth  in  the 
years  of  minority;  it  left  him  light-hearted  and  cheery, 
except  for  a  little  compunction  of  conscience  at  having 
vexed  his  uncle. 

''Uncle  Adrian  takes  things  so  tragically,"  he  re- 
flected. "That's  the  worst  of  being  so  saintlike.  Yet 
the  dear  old  boy  isn't  a  saint;  he  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that. 
But  he's  much  too  good  for  a  world  like  this.  He's 
bound  at  his  time  of  life  to  preachee-preachee  to  a  young- 
ster like  me,  I  suppose. ' ' 

"Dick  is  young  and  light-hearted,"  the  uncle  com- 
mented to  his  wife ;  ' '  boys  of  his  temperament  are  prone 
to  take  life  as  a  good  joke  till  they  find  it  a  bad  one." 

"That  is  just  what  I  was  saying,  dearest;  Richard 
has  no  real  seriousness,  no  ballast,  he  is  never  in  earnest. 
How  is  he  to  keep  straight  ? ' ' 

"That  is  what  David  asked  so  long  ago,  my  dear, 
and  if  I  remember  rightly,  he  supplied  the  only  solution. 
I  'm  less  surprised  at  the  number  of  youths  who  go  wrong 
than  at  the  number  of  those  who  keep  straight,  or  having, 
as  they  say,  sown  their  wild  oats,  pull  themselves  up  and 
develop  into  irreproachable  old  fogies,  when  I  remember 


BELTON,  LAKING   &   CO.  53 

what  young  blood  is.  Dick  lias  a  heart  and  a  good  one ; 
but,  as  you  say,  he  wants  ballast.  And  I  don't  think 
much  of  his  friends — especially  that  young  Musgrave.  I 
hope  Musgrave  may  get  another  ship  soon."  But  the 
friendship  with  that  young  Musgrave  continued. 


KITTY     MUSGEAVE 

INGBESTONE  had  suffered  the  fate  of  all  pleasant 
solitudes  in  these  rushing  days  of  overteeming  popu- 
lation, since  the  Beltons  first  came  to  live  at  the  Pines. 
Then  the  plain  substantial  gray  house,  that  had 
looked  so  grimly  at  Richard  when  he  first  saw  it  in 
the  winter  dusk,  had  stood  solitary  and  aloof  among 
its  dark  trees;  now  its  windows  saw  the  smoke  of  other 
chimneys  and  its  wide  prospects  were  blocked  here  and 
there. 

Yet  Ingrestone  was  still  small  and  secluded,  com- 
manding broad  spaces  and  far  horizons.  The  new  rail- 
way that  allured  the  Beltons  thither  had  attracted  others, 
without  working  such  utter  havoc  as  is  usual  with  that 
familiar  brownie,  the  curse  and  blessing  of  our  days. 
The  sentiment  of  the  place  was  not  yet  destroyed;  its 
aloofness,  the  freedom  of  the  wind's  broad  and  briny 
sweep  over  marshy  meads,  the  exhilaration  of  its  wild 
and  wide  burst  over  gray  and  lonely  downs,  by  which  the 
place  was  ramparted,  remained;  the  sea's  sparkle,  the 
tumult  of  its  foaming  ridges  and  azure  sweep  of  its  calm, 
were  still  dominant.  The  squalor  of  half-built  outskirt 
and  rubbish-heap,  the  dreariness  of  stuccoed  terrace  and 
smugness  of  encroaching  villa,  were  not  yet,  nor  the 
horror  of  high  wralls  and  overtrim  public  gardens. 
Only  at  Sandycombe,  beyond  the  marsh-land,  was  the 
glare  of  electric  light  thrown  upon  the  astonished 
waves. 

The  joy  of  open  field,  tangled  hedgerow  and  copse; 
the  pleasantness  of  cottage  and  farm  buried  in  garden 
54 


KITTY  MUSGRAVE  55 

and  orchard;  the  comfort  of  lichen-crusted  barn,  pic- 
turesque granary  and  elm-shaded  rickyard,  and  sounds 
and  sights  of  animal  life;  the  beauty  of  unnumbered 
wild  flowers  springing  in  untold  variety  everywhere, 
unbidden  and  unsought,  like  all  our  best  joys,  still 
made  life  in  that  region  a  pleasant  and  wholesome 
thing. 

And  always  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the  sea,  the  wild 
and  pensive  freedom  of  open  downs,  the  flight  of  sea-gull 
and  cormorant,  of  plover,  rook,  and  hawk,  and  the  song  of 
every  bird  in  its  season,  gave  the  feeling  of  wild  life  and 
freedom.  Nor  did  any  steam  plow  tear  violently,  with 
harsh  clank  of  iron  and  stench  of  smoke,  at  the  fair  bosom 
of  earth;  the  plowman  still  drove  his  share  with  gentle 
skill  along  the  fragrant  furrow,  behind  beautiful,  patient 
horses  with  liquid  eyes  and  nodding  manes ;  mowers  still 
lined  sloping  meadows  in  rhythmic  ranks;  the  sower 
still  strode  with  fine  gesture  and  open  hand  across  the 
fallow;  man  and  nature  worked  together,  half  in  play, 
hand  in  hand  in  exquisite  harmony;  the  hoof  of  Mam- 
mon had  not  stamped  upon  the  wholesome  life  of  these 
fields  the  hideous  desire  to  wring  the  utmost  farthing 
from  them ;  the  ugliness  of  commerce  was  forgotten ;  the 
wealth  of  the  land  seemed  spontaneous,  unmercenary, 
virgin. 

The  beauty  and  sweet  peace  of  the  place  came  into 
Rosny's  heart  like  a  sudden  revelation  as  he  skimmed 
along  the  level  road  through  marshy  meadows — where  a 
deep  stream  crept  slowly  between  trenched  banks  that 
were  hidden  by  lush-growing  water-plants  and  stiff 
phalanx  of  sedge  and  flag,  and  where  masses  of  forget- 
me-nots  and  plumes  of  meadow-sweet  still  lingered  into 
autumn  with  the  last  and  sweetest  bloom  of  honey- 
suckle— on  his  bicycle,  the  perilous  high-wheel  machine 
of  that  day,  attempted  only  by  agile  youth  of  virile  sex, 
and  somewhat  frowned  upon  as  a  cheap  plebeian  substi- 
tute for  the  costly  and  aristocratic  horse.  A  line  of 
poetry  flashing  into  memory  brought  Rosny  with  a 


56  RICHARD   ROSNY 

bound  from  his  bicycle  to  the  side-path  and  thence  to  the 
bank  of  the  stream,  to  gather  a  bunch  of 

The  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers, 

and  tie  them  to  the  handle-bar  with  some  meadow-sweet 
and  honeysuckle. 

Then  up  and  off  again  in  the  mellow  September  sun- 
shine on  his  quaint  iron  steed;  past  low  flower-tangled 
hedges  and  cattle  browsing  in  meadows;  past  a  shining 
upland,  where  wheat-sheaves  were  piled,  and  up  a  steep 
lane,  where  berried  briony  festooned  the  hedges  and 
crimson  rose-berries  mingled  with  fast-seeding  traveler's 
joy,  and  brambles  were  laden  with  pink  blossom  and  ber- 
ries red  and  black ;  past  a  deep-eaved  cottage,  standing  in 
its  little  teeming  garden,  close-sentineled  by  gallant 
hollyhocks  and  rich  with  fruit-bent  orchard  boughs; 
past  a  gray-walled  grange,  belted  with  elms  and  sur- 
rounded by  gardens,  orchard,  and  barn — all  glowing  in 
September  glory,  with  the  sea  behind  and  the  long  ram- 
part of  undulating  down  before  him.  Strange  that  the 
beauty  and  interest  and  charm  of  these  every-day  sights 
and  sounds  had  never  before  come  home  to  his  heart  as 
to-day,  when  they  touched  him  as  he  had  never  been 
touched  before.  Not  by  palm-fringed  coral  islands  and 
Cingalese  precipices  robed  in  forest  of  Paradise,  by  Alps 
descending  toward  the  blue  Mediterranean,  by  its  blue 
grottoes  and  islands  set  gemlike  in  its  bosom;  nor  by 
splendor  of  sunrise  and  sunset  on  mountain  and  sea,  or 
by  the  vivid  life  of  foreign  ports  and  cities  seated,  domed 
and  spired,  upon  beautiful  bays  and  inlets.  No,  this 
quiet  English  countryside,  smiling  under  a  tender,  mys- 
terious blue  sky,  was  worth  all  the  world  beside,  and  his 
heart  was  bounding  with  fulness  of  eager  life  as  it  had 
never  bounded  before. 

Now  he  leaped  to  the  ground  to  go  through  a  herd  of 
sedate,  soft-eyed  cows,  padding  with  gentle  dignity  along 
the  lane  to  afternoon  milking;  what  balm  in  their 


KITTY  MUSGRAVE  57 

breath,  what  expression  in  their  innocent  faces,  how  lov- 
able, how  pathetic,  these  helpless  fellow  creatures  were ! 
Happy  Dick  Rosny,  happier  in  your  unconscious  joy  than 
you  know,  will  you  ever  again  be  as  happy  as  on  this 
golden  afternoon  at  the  culmination  of  the  year?  Per- 
haps there  is  a  day  in  every  life  that  can  never  be  recalled 
or  repeated,  that,  could  it  be  made  eternal,  would  never 
pall,  and  perhaps  that  day  is  one  of  hope,  not  fulfilment. 
Certainly  it  is  a  day  that  comes  before  life  is  marred  by 
any  serious  error  or  irrevocable  wrong-doing,  a  day  glori- 
ous with  the  morning  light  of  innocence  and  hope. 

Arrived  at  Ingrestone,  Rosny  flashed  past  the  Pines, 
with  a  careless  nod  to  the  curly  head  peeping  idly  through 
the  dilapidated  gate ;  passing  the  Pines,  he  turned  in  at 
the  gate  of  a  newer  house,  standing  beyond  and  some- 
what behind  the  other  and  overlooking  some  part  of  its 
grounds,  and,  leading  his  bicycle,  walked  with  a  less  con- 
fident step  between  trim  flower-beds  cut  in  the  turf  up  to 
the  door,  which  stood  hospitably  open  under  Gloire  de 
Dijon  roses  and  almond-scented  clematis,  as  if  to  say 
"Come  in,"  filled  with  trepidation,  almost  terror.  Yes, 
Lieutenant  Rosny,  R.  N.,  of  H.  M.  S.  Formidable,  who 
counted  war  service,  and  had  been  in  wrecks  and  ex- 
plosions, who  had  saved  many  lives  and  reveled  in  all 
such  perils  as  beset  sea-soldiers,  trembled  through  his  six 
foot  six  inches  at  the  thought  of  ringing  the  bell  of  that 
open  door.  He  almost  turned  and  fled  for  fear  of  facing 
the  homely  parlor-maid  the  sound  would  summon  to  it. 
As  for  the  forget-me-nots,  he  would  have  thrown  them 
away,  they  looked  so  homely  by  flaunting  garden  beau- 
ties, but  that  there  was  nowhere  to  throw  them  unno- 
ticed. 

He  never  rang  the  formidable  bell  at  all,  for,  while  he 
stood  hesitating,  a  light  step  crossed  the  hall,  a  white 
dress  fluttered  through  its  cool  shadows,  and  a  young 
voice  was  heard  softly  singing — 

"  If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please, 
For  her  I'll  wear  the  blue," 


58  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Dick  Rosny's  own  song,  which  restored  his  ebbing  cour- 
age and  flushed  him  with  serene  self-confidence,  un- 
troubled even  by  the  advance  of  the  singer  with  a  look  of 
pleased  surprise. 

"Mr.  Rosny?  How  odd!  We  were  just  wondering 
what  had  become  of  you." 

"Since  the  day  before  yesterday?"  he  thought,  but 
only  said:  "How  kind  of  you  to  wonder!  Well,  I've 
just  risked  my  life  in  your  service,  Miss  Musgrave ;  that 's 
what  became  of  me.  I  thought  you  might  like  these  for- 
get-me-nots, so  I  nearly  tumbled  into  the  trench  getting 
them,  just  where  it's  at  least  three  feet  deep." 

' '  Three  feet  ?  I  hoped  you  were  going  to  say  twenty 
at  least.  The  peril  of  three  feet  ?  Very  cheap  heroism. ' ' 

' '  Ah !  you  are  too  hard-hearted  to  believe  in  the  dan- 
ger. Consider  the  narrowness  of  the  trench ;  it  would  be 
like  putting  one's  head  in  a  bucket  with  pinioned  arms. 
Think  what  a  fool  I  should  have  looked,  wrong  end  up- 
permost, if  I  had  tumbled  in. ' ' 

1 '  On  the  whole,  it  was  wiser  to  keep  right  end  upper- 
most and  bring  me  these  charming  things.  Mother  is  so 
fond  of  them.  We  shall  find  her  on  the  tennis-ground ; 
she  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you." 

It  took  a  long  time  to  reach  the  tennis-ground,  con- 
sidering that  it  was  so  near ;  but  the  afternoon  was  warm 
and  the  grounds  were  arranged  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
offer  objects  of  interest  at  every  turn,  and  so  cause  long 
deviations  from  the  right  path.  The  rose-walk,  a  tunnel 
of  climbing  roses,  for  instance,  led  away  from  the  tennis- 
ground  to  a  seat  under  a  beech-tree,  where  it  seemed 
necessary  to  sit  and  talk  in  the  particularly  bald  and  dis- 
jointed strain  of  people  who  have  more  to  say  than  they 
dare  express  and  who  are  quite  content  with  silence. 

"  Du  bist  wie  eine  Blume, 

So  schon  und  hold  und  rein," 

Rosuy  was  saying  in  his  heart,  whenever  he  looked  upon 
the  dainty  figure  and  flower-like  face  by  his  side,  or  lis- 


KITTY  MUSGRAVE  59 

tened  to  the  voice  that  made  him  tremble  with  delight 
that  was  half  pain,  and  mixed  with  longing  and  dread. 
If  the  clear  eyes  would  but  look  up  and  smile,  he  thought ; 
yet,  if  they  did,  it  was  too  much.  Some  of  his  forget-me- 
nots  were  in  her  white  dress;  she  gathered  him  a  dark 
crimson  rose,  the  scent  of  which  made  him  weak  with 
pleasure,  as  they  passed  through  the  sunny  gardens  to 
the  tennis-lawn,  where  her  mother  sat  beneath  yellowing 
linden-trees  and  made  him  welcome.  Adeline  was  not  to 
come  to  Kathleen  for  music-lessons  again,  she  mentioned 
presently. 

"I  was  proud  of  my  little  pupil,"  Kathleen  said; 
"she  has  real  talent.  And  the  fence  is  mended." 

' '  But  why  ?  Why  mayn  't  she  come  ? "  he  asked,  the 
light  going  out  of  his  face. 

"Mr.  Belton  thinks  it  a  tax  upon  Kitty.  A  pity,  be- 
cause the  obligation  is  really  the  other  way. ' ' 

"Oh,"  said  Richard,  "I  don't  know  about  that.  It 
was  a  splendid  chance  for  Addie. ' '  He  looked  so  vexed 
that  they  were  sorry  to  have  mentioned  the  thing.  All 
three  knew  that  the  mended  fence  meant  an  end  to  all 
but  formal  intercourse  between  the  two  houses.  When 
had  a  fence  been  mended  at  the  Pines  before  ? 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  my  little  sisters,"  he 
said  presently.  ' '  They  talk  about  you  from  morning  till 
night." 

* '  They  are  darlings, ' '  Kathleen  said,  with  the  pretty 
flush  that  went  to  Richard's  heart. 

A  few  weeks  ago  he  had  never  seen  her  and  had 
been  bored  by  the  children 's  recital  of  her  virtues.  Mrs. 
Belton,  who  went  out  little  and  never  called  on  fresh 
people,  had  made  an  exception  at  his  request  in  the  case 
of  Ronald  Musgrave's  cousins,  who  had  lately  become 
her  neighbors ;  and  she  had  told  Richard  what  a  boon  it 
was  to  the  children  to  be  so  much  with  this  gentle  and 
charming  young  woman,  who  was  gradually  taming  and 
refining  them  and  giving  Addie  steady  music-lessons. 
All  this  was  very  well ;  still  Richard  had  no  great  desire 


60  RICHARD   ROSNY 

to  make  Miss  Musgrave  's  acquaintance,  a  duty  he  meant 
to  perform  at  the  proper  time.  A  girl  so  good  was  prob- 
ably dull  and  stupid,  with  no  complexion  and  a  large 
waist. 

One  hot  Sunday  morning  Dick  had  come  over  to  the 
Pines  from  his  quarters  at  Sandycombe  to  breakfast,  a 
repast  at  which  his  stepfather  seldom  presented  himself. 
The  bells  were  ringing  for  morning  prayer,  the  children 
in  Sunday  attire  were  waiting  for  their  mother  in  the 
garden,  where  he  was  stretched  in  the  shade  with  his 
pipe ;  they  were  asking  him  why  he  did  not  go  to  church, 
he  was  inventing  various  whimsical  excuses. 

' '  Oh,  shut  up  and  don 't  bother ! ' '  cried  Archie  at  last. 
"Men  don't  go  to  church;  it's  only  for  women  and  chil- 
dren." 

"Is  men  too  wicked  to  go  to  tsurts?"  asked  Molly 
sadly. 

"Much  too  wicked,"  Dick  said,  patting  the  tiny 
gloved  hand  on  his  knee  and  smiling  into  the  wide  blue 
eyes. 

"Then  they  are  too  wicked  to  go  to  heaven,"  said 
Adeline  with  decision,  "and  I  don't  believe  it;  for  how 
could  there  be  any  heaven  without  men  in  it?"  and 
Molly  began  to  cry  over  her  clean  frock,  and  screw  her 
best  gloves  into  her  eyes  at  this  melancholy  prospect. 

' '  I  sant  like  to  go  to  heaven  if  there  isn  't  no  gempel- 
mans  there,"  she  whimpered  piteously.  Nor  could  she 
be  comforted  by  any  means  until  her  brother  consented 
to  accompany  her,  not  only  to  church  that  morning,  but 
also,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  on  the  road  to  a  better  world. 

So  to  church  Richard  went,  enchanted  by  his  small 
sister's  discontent  with  a  purely  feminine  heaven,  one  of 
his  hands  firmly  grasped  by  Molly's  mite  of  a  fist,  the 
other  as  firmly  held  by  Addie's.  and  between  these  two 
he  sat,  each  arm  brushed  by  a  cloud  of  curly  hair,  whence 
innocent  eyes  peeped  up  now  and  then,  partly  to  see  if 
he  was  behaving  properly,  and  partly  to  taste  the  joy  so 
dear  to  woman  of  leading  the  errant  male  into  good  ways. 


KITTY   MUSGRAVE  61 

Much  relieved  to  find  the  prodigal's  conduct  beyond 
reproach,  the  little  maidens  attended  to  their  own  de- 
votions and  gradually  forgot  him  in  the  splendor  of  Sun- 
day hats,  the  furtive  smiles  of  friends,  the  pleasantness 
of  trees  and  birds  outside,  and  the  mystery  of  half-de- 
ciphered mural  tablets  within,  until  at  last  a  tangle  of 
curls  drooped  in  helpless  slumber  upon  his  arm. 

At  this  he  moved  to  make  the  child  more  comfortable, 
and  looked  behind  him,  straight  into  the  pure  and  pen- 
sive eyes  of  a  slight  and  graceful  girl  sitting  by  a  mass- 
ive stone  pillar,  that  by  its  gray  and  antique  solidity 
emphasized  the  freshness  of  her  fragile  beauty  and  wild- 
rose  face.  His  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  such  a  flame 
leaped  into  his  dark-blue  eyes  as  kindled  warm  crimson 
in  the  soft  young  cheeks  they  rested  on;  for  three  sec- 
onds he  looked  steadily  and  gravely,  but  so  intently,  into 
the  other  young  eyes,  that  they  were  obliged  to  meet  his. 
Then,  fetching  a  deep  breath,  he  turned  and  looked  be- 
fore him  in  a  tumult  of  new  and  strange  emotion,  made 
up  of  joy  and  pain  and  terror  and  exultation,  and  knew 
that  the  whole  world  had  changed  and  would  never  be 
the  same  again. 

Who  was  she,  what  was  she?  Of  what  was  she 
thinking  in  that  long,  soft  gaze?  Did  she  feel  the  fire 
that  flashed  through  and  from  some  inner  unsuspected 
deeps  in  him  ?  Ah !  and  what  was  he  that  he  should  dare 
encounter  that  pure  glance?  All  his  sins,  follies,  and 
weaknesses  rose  up  in  their  blackness  and  pollution  and 
asked  him  what  he  could  have  in  common  with  one  so 
white  and  sweet  of  soul.  Yet  the  world  was  suddenly 
irradiated  with  hope,  yet  the  very  sunshine  pouring 
through  translucent  green  of  lindens  outside  was  more 
glorious,  the  blue  of  the  deep  summer  heaven  sweeter 
and  deeper,  and  the  quality  of  everything  beautiful  and 
worthy  and  delightful  suddenly  intensified,  because  of 
that  brief,  mutual  gaze. 

His    mother,    decorously    listening    to    the    sermon, 
turned  by  chance  and  looked  upon  him  with  wonder. 
5 


62  RICHARD    ROSNY 

Never  had  she  surprised  such  an  expression  upon  her 
son's  strong  and  masculine  face,  so  full  of  worship  and 
aspiration,  so  rapt,  so  spiritualized,  by  joy  mixed  with  a 
sacred  awe.  There  were  depths  then  in  this  matter-of- 
fact  son  of  hers,  after  all — depths  still  unsounded.  His 
pronounced  dislike  to  all  expression  of  feeling  probably 
covered  a  warmer  heart  than  he  was  credited  with.  He 
was  a  kind  son ;  but  she  would  rather  have  had  caresses 
and  tender  words  than  kindness.  Emotions  were  to  her 
as  wine  to  a  drunkard.  She  lived  on  excesses  of  feeling 
and  reveled  in  tender  expressions.  In  these  days  Rich- 
ard was  a  source  of  perpetual  irritation  to  her ;  she  com- 
plained that  he  misunderstood  her,  and  was  secretly 
angry  that  she  could  not  understand  a  nature  that  was 
to  hers  as  the  sea  to  a  river. 

Once,  when  they  rose  to  leave  the  church,  Eichard 
ventured  another  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  pillar. 
The  pensive  young  face  was  still  there,  the  slender  figure 
fluttered  over  by  a  sunbeam  sliding  through  rustling 
leaves  outside;  a  soldierlike  man  with  grizzled  hair  sat 
next  her,  and  next  him  a  handsome  woman  of  middle  age. 
They  must  be  the  Musgraves. 

Five  minutes  later  found  him  walking  between 
hedgerows  in  a  strange  sort  of  dream,  side  by  side  with 
the  young  creature  whose  face  had  so  deeply  touched 
him,  feeling  as  if  his  soul  were  plunged  into  some  foun- 
tain of  sweet  waters  that  cleansed  and  healed. 

Only  a  few  weeks  ago  this  meeting  had  occurred,  but 
very  few  days  had  passed  since  without  some  word,  and 
many  thoughts  had  been  exchanged  between  them  and 
many  more  divined  by  infinitesimal  signs.  She  was  so 
gay  and  good-tempered  with  the  children,  so  companion- 
able and  sympathetic  to  their  mother ;  whether  she  sang 
or  rowed,  played  tennis  or  talked,  all  was  done  with  such 
grace  and  distinction — so  Richard  thought. 

They  played  tennis  under  Mrs.  Musgrave's  eye;  the 
Musgraves,  Dick  thought,  were  upholders  of  convention 
to  a  fault.  What  a  fool  to  miss  the  opportunity  in  the 


KITTY   MUSGRAVE  63 

garden !  It  was  always  like  that ;  when  the  favorable 
moment  came  it  found  him  mute  as  a  fish,  stupid  as  an 
owl.  But  could  she  ever  care  for  a  harum-scarum,  devil- 
may-care  fellow  like  himself? 

"Well,  I  seem  bound  to  win  everything  to-day," 
Kathleen  said  at  last,  laying  down  her  racket  and  rais- 
ing her  arms  to  tidy  the  hair  tumbling  about  her  flushed 
face  after  the  last  victorious  bound  at  the  ball. 

"Everything;  more  than  you  want,  perhaps,"  Rich- 
ard said. 

"Oh!  but  I  like  to  win  everything — even  if  I  don't 
want  it,"  she  added,  with  the  joyous  ring  only  heard  in 
young  voices. 

' '  Well,  then, ' '  he  burst  out  with  a  sudden  movement 
toward  her,  his  hands  outstretched,  his  eyes  flashing  blue 
fire,  "you've  won  me.  You  won  me  at  first  sight  that 
day  in  church,  before  ever  I  heard  your  voice  or  knew 
your  name.  Oh,  Kitty,  one  look  finished  my  business, 
and  whatever  you  say  or  do,  I  shall  never  forget  you, 
never. ' ' 

"And  I  shall  never  forget  you,  never,"  she  fal- 
tered. "I — I  liked  you  that  day  in  church,  when  you 
turned  round." 

"Oh,  darling!  You  can't  mean  that  you  care  for 
me,  that  you'll  listen  to  me,  that  you'll  have  me?" 

Mrs.  Musgrave  had  thoughtfully  left  her  seat  under 
the  trees;  the  tennis-players  were  overshadowed  by  a 
young  birch;  only  swallows  sweeping  with  airy  cries 
across  the  blue  and  robins  chirruping  in  an  apple-tree 
saw  this  world-old  drama  enacted.  Kitty  raised  her 
clear  bright  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  and  smiled  in  a 
silence  that  went  to  the  very  center  of  his  heart.  Her 
dear,  gallant  sailor  towered  above  her  with  a  graver, 
deeper  look  on  his  frank  and  sunny  face  than  she 
had  ever  seen  before;  then  she  was  gathered  to  his 
heart. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Kitty 's  father,  returning  from  a 
day 's  shooting  and  striding  noiselessly  over  the  deep  turf, 


64  RICHARD   ROSNY 

came  noiselessly  upon  his  pretty  Kitty  and  ' '  that  young 
Rosny." 

"Pray,  sir,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  thun- 
dered. 

"The  meaning  is,"  replied  Richard  with  a  start  and 
quick  recovery,  "that  your  daughter  has  promised  to  be 
my  wife,  with  your  consent." 


CHAPTER   VI 

MY     SON'S    WIFE 

THE  stern  parent,  frowning  down  his  children's 
youthful  joys  and  warning  suitors  of  the  premises,  is 
obsolete,  if  not  extinct;  with  him  has  vanished  a  great 
zest  and  stimulus  to  love-making  and  early  marriage. 
Colonel  Musgrave  was  not  a  stern  father ;  he  looked  with 
philosophic  resignation,  even  with  complacence,  upon  the 
probable  marriage  of  all  his  daughters  in  turn,  so  Rich- 
ard passed  scatheless  through  the  ordeal  of  a  private  in- 
terview in  the  study,  though  he  afterward  confessed  that 
his  knees  shook  and  his  heart  thumped  audibly  the  whole 
time. 

' '  I  think,  my  dear, ' '  the  father  said  to  his  wife  at  the 
end  of  the  day,  "that  little  Kitty  has  done  fairly  well, 
after  all.  She  hasn't  the  style  and  go  of  the  others, 
though  she 's  the  prettiest  and  best  of  the  bunch.  Rosny 
is  all  right.  A  smart  officer,  and  has  seen  service." 

"He  is  a  dear  boy,  and  a  good  son.  Good  sons  make 
good  husbands.  But  I  do  not  like  the  Belton  connec- 
tion." 

"You  can't  have  everything  in  a  world  like  this — 
where  there  are  not  husbands  enough  to  go  round.  Mrs. 
Belton,  poor  thing,  is  a  charming  woman.  She  dresses 
well  and  is  still  good-looking.  Grief  preserves  the  figure 
if  it  ages  the  face.  Rosny  is  well-connected.  He  has 
property  and  a  fair  chance  of  promotion.  If  he  has  been 
a  little  wild,  he  will  steady  down.  Kitty  is  the  very  girl 
to  steady  him,  just  a  little  overprim  and  Puritanic;  I 
shall  take  care  that  he  settles  everything  on  Kathleen  and 
her  children,  if  only  to  keep  it  from  those  Beltons." 

65 


66  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"After  all,  if  only  the  young  people  are  attached  to 
each  other,  what  more  can  we  ask  1 ' ' 

"For  Kitty  I  should  ask  five  hundred  a  year  to 
begin  with,  not  more.  She's  a  good  little  housewife. 
Rosny  is  a  capable  chap.  That  factory  of  his  has  money 
in  it.  You  don't  often  find  a  young  naval  officer  start- 
ing a  factory,  much  less  making  it  pay.  I  like  the  young- 
ster. He  looks  you  straight  in  the  face.  Kit  has  turned 
up  a  trump  this  time,  bless  her. ' ' 

"Thank  Heaven,  I  sha'n't  have  to  face  that  any 
more,"  thought  Richard,  passing  a  handkerchief  over 
his  face  when  he  issued  triumphant  from  the  study. 
"Kitty,  darling,  I'd  face  it  ten  times  over  for  you, 
though, ' '  he  told  her  afterward  in  the  scented  dusk  of  the 
garden.  ' '  What  wouldn  't  I  face  for  you,  Kitten  ? ' ' 

' '  What  would  you  face,  Richard  ? ' '  Kitty  asked,  sud- 
denly lifting  the  sweet  face  hidden  on  his  shoulder  and 
smiling  into  his  eyes.  "Name  the  poison." 

' '  My  sweet  angel !  What  do  I  hate  most  1  Dulness, 
twaddle,  cold  mutton,  barrel-organs,  bagpipes,  a  dead 
calm — every  horror  you  can  think  of,  dear,  I  'd  face  for 
you?" 

"Could  you  give  up  tobacco  for  me?" 
"Yes;  and  stop  my  grog  into  the  bargain." 
"Do  it  for  a  week,  then.     So  good  night,  Richard. ' ' 
"Darling,  it's  done.    Ah! — one  minute,  only  one." 
His  arm  clasped  empty  air;  he  found  himself  alone 
in  the  garden,  with  the  sound  of  a  light,  joyous  laugh  and 
the  rustle  of  fluttering  skirts  in  his  ears  and  heart  and 
happy  tears  in  his  eyes. 

Till  to-morrow  at  luncheon?  Why,  it  was  an  eter- 
nity ;  Musgrave  must  have  a  millstone  for  a  heart.  But 
that  was  Kitty's  window  up  there,  muffled  in  clematis, 
the  Virgin 's  Bower  of  poets.  Ah !  it  was  lighted  and  the 
blinds  drawn ;  she  was  there ;  would  she  peep  through  the 
blind  ?  or  was  she  too  certain  that  he  was  there  below,  his 
heart,  all  his  heart,  going  up  to  her  in  his  eager  eyes  ? 
Up  there,  behind  the  blinds,  Kitty  stopped,  smiling, 


MY   SON'S   WIFE  67 

the  brush  arrested  half-way  through  the  long  swathes 
of  her  shining  hair,  to  listen  to  the  soft  whistle  of  Kath- 
leen Mavourneen.  And  when  the  last  gong  rumbled, 
and  with  a  last  touch,  she  flashed  like  summer  lightning 
down  the  stairs  to  dinner,  the  melody  still  came  low  and 
mellow  from  under  the  clematis. 

"He  will  not  be  here  to-night,  children/'  a  sad  voice 
was  saying  at  the  Pines,  where  Mrs.  Belton,  having  dined 
lightly  and  drearily  alone,  was  sitting  by  a  shaded  lamp 
in  the  drawing-room  with  some  needlework  in  her  hand ; 
' '  he  was  on  his  way  to  Merstone,  no  doubt,  and  will  dine 
and  perhaps  sleep  there.  No,  Adeline,  no  music  to-night, 
please.  Suppose  we  have  a  little  French  reading,  Les 
Malheurs  de  Sophie.  Archie,  you  may  say  your  poetry 
first.  Come,  dear.  'When  the  British '  ' 

"  'When  the  Blissish,'  "  began  Archie,  discontent- 
edly, 

"  When  the  Blissish  warming  queen, 
Leading  out  the  Roaming  gods, 
Thought  it  was  so  beastly  mean — " 

"Nonsense,  dear,"  sighed  poor  Mrs.  Belton,  whose 
efforts  to  teach  her  wild  little  brood  were  necessarily 
spasmodic,  "you  are  not  trying.  Molly,  darling,  say 
your  piece  instead. ' ' 

Edith  still  retained  the  grace  and  charm  of  early 
womanhood,  though  the  hair  rippling  over  her  delicate 
forehead  was  dashed  with  gray ;  the  lines  traced  by  care 
and  pain  in  her  face,  and  the  hollows  darkening  with 
many  crows'  feet  under  her  large,  bright  eyes,  were 
scarcely  seen  in  the  lamplight;  her  languor  and  soft 
melancholy  suited  well  with  the  refined  tenuity  of  her 
face  and  form;  her  dress,  no  matter  how  plain  or  even 
shabby  it  might  be,  was  always  in  the  best  taste  and  worn 
with  an  elegance  peculiar  to  herself.  A  jewel,  a  flower, 
a  little  exquisite  lace  placed  with  inimitable  grace  and 
discretion,  sufficed  to  redeem  from  dowdiness  anything 
she  wore.  She  had  the  instinct  of  beauty  so  strongly  that 
she  could  not  pass  through  a  room  without  some  slight  and 


68  RICHARD   ROSNY 

rapid  adjustment  of  the  things  in  itrthat  was  like  magic 
in  the  air  of  beauty  it  effected.  Though  the  drawing-room 
was  shabby  and  faded,  there  was  nothing  ugly  or  squalid 
in  it.  Flowers  carelessly  flung  about  gave  it  poetry; 
everything  was  gracefully  arranged,  cracks  and  rents  and 
stains  were  hidden  by  some  apparently  unmeant  device, 
that  converted  a  blemish  into  an  adornment.  The  long, 
slender  hand  laid  caressingly  on  Molly's  curls  was  white 
and  pretty;  her  voice  was  sweet,  if  plaintive,  and  her 
accent  very  pure.  She  scarcely  looked  old  enough  to  be 
the  mother  of  that  stalwart  sailor  whistling  beneath  his 
sweetheart's  window. 

Les  Malheurs  de  Sophie  were  being  slowly  recounted 
with  great  variety  of  bad  accent,  when  Richard  bounded 
up-stairs  four  steps  at  a  stride,  and,  bursting  like  a 
beneficent  bombshell  into  the  room,  his  pulses  leaping 
with  all  kinds  of  repressed  emotion,  was  touched 
by  the  pensive  charm  of  his  mother,  engarlanded  by 
fresh  child-faces,  and  reclining  in  a  deep  chair,  whence 
her  fine-cut  face  and  thoughtful  eyes  showed  starlike, 
and  her  clear  voice,  correcting  the  children,  sounded 
sweetly  and  woke  the  deep  pity  always  alive,  if  some- 
times slumbering,  in  the  depth  of  his  heart. 

There  was  a  unanimous  subdued  cry  at  this  appear- 
ance ;  the  Malheurs  de  Sophie  were  flung  aside ;  even  the 
tired  mother  rose  with  a  joyous  exclamation  and  a  smile 
of  welcome. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  before?"  cried  Gerald. 
"He's  been  asleep  all  day.  We  could  have  had  a  stun- 
ning time." 

"When  he  gets  up  and  goes  to  sleep  in  the  morning, 
he's  safe  for  the  day,"  Adeline  explained. 

Dick,  to  their  surprise,  returned  the  little  girls'  kisses, 
bestowed  a  cuff  of  unusual  cordiality  on  the  boys,  and 
kissed  his  mother  with  a  vehemence  that  startled  her,  it 
was  so  unusual. 

"Why,  Richie,  darling,  what  is  the  matter?"  she 
asked. 


MY   SON'S   WIFE  69 

"Nothing,  Muffie,  nothing — only  I  am  so  jolly  hun- 
gry. Hasn't  Mr.  Belton  slept  rather  long  this  time? 
Wouldn  't  it  be  well  to  rouse  him  ? ' '  Dick  asked,  when  he 
was  in  the  drawing-room  alone  with  his  mother,  after  the 
children  had  gone  to  bed. 

"Heaven  forbid!"  she  replied  hastily;  "I  mean  it 
would  make  him  in  a  terrible  condition  to  rouse  him  be- 
fore he  has  slept  it  off.  I  used  to  at  first.  It  nearly 
drove  him  mad.  Once  he  took  an  overdose  and  told  us 
to  keep  him  awake  by  force.  That  was  an  experience  not 
easily  forgotten." 

"Surely  he  might  take  an  overdose  and  not  tell 
you." 

"Yes,  I  have  thought  of  that.  But  I  watch  him. 
Oh,  Richie,  where  will  it  end?  And  how  can  it  be 
stopped  ?  And  what  must  the  children  think  ?  It  is  not 
fit  for  them  to  be  in  the  house." 

"  It 's  better  than  the  other  thing,  Muffie.  They  think 
he  is  ill.  And  he 's  out  of  the  way.  And  you  are  sure  of 
a  little  peace — for  a  time,  at  least." 

"For  a  time,  indeed.  He  often  walks  the  house  the 
whole  night  after  such  a  day  as  this — up  and  down,  up 
and  down.  Frightful  to  think  of!  I  am  so  afraid  the 
children  may  hear  him,  perhaps  even  see  him.  Oh, 
Richie,  you  don 't  know  all, ' '  she  sobbed,  suddenly  break- 
ing down  and  pouring  out  a  torrent  of  miserable  expe- 
rience from  her  overcharged  heart. 

' '  Poor  Muffie !  What  hard  luck ! "  he  said,  when  the 
dreary  recital  came  to  an  end.  "Cheer  up,  dear.  Bet- 
ter times  will  come.  I'll  make  him  send  the  children  to 
school.  Godfrey  Belton  has  promised  the  funds.  And 
this  can't  go  on.  If  Belton  doesn't  pull  up  soon  he'll 
have  to  be  put  under  restraint " 

"Restraint?  My  dear  boy,  what  a  Job's  comforter 
you  are ! ' ' 

"Why,  Muffie,  people  put  themselves  under  restraint 
of  their  own  free  will,  which  is  their  only  chance.  But 
if  he  doesn't  pull  up,  I  think  you'll  have  to  leave  him." 


70  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Never.     I  hope  I  know  my  duty  better  than  that." 

"You  can't  go  on  losing  your  night's  rest,  Muffie. 
No  constitution  could  stand  it.  And  you  were  never 
very  strong.  There's  always  hope.  Belton  may  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  especially  if  he's  made  to  see  that  you 
don 't  mean  to  stand  it.  Give  him  a  good  fright.  Bluff, 
Muffie,  bluff  all  you  can.  That  is  your  game." 

She  cheered  up  after  a  little;  the  complaining  tone 
left  her  voice,  the  persistent  droop  of  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  became  less  perceptible;  she  had  leisure  to  ob- 
serve an  unusual  excitement  and  tenderness  in  Richard, 
especially  in  his  eyes,  which  were  moist  and  brilliant  as 
she  had  never  seen  them. 

"Why,  what  has  come  to  my  own  boy?"  she  asked, 
suddenly  sitting  up  and  looking  attentively  into  his 
face. 

' '  Good  luck,  the  best  luck, ' '  he  replied,  with  a  quiver 
in  his  voice. 

"Richard!  What  have  you  been  doing?  Where 
have  you  been  to-day?"  she  cried,  with  misgiving. 

"Can't  you  guess,  Muff?  Hadn't  you  noticed?  I'm 
going  to  give  you  a  daughter,  such  a  daughter. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  Richie,  Richie ! ' '  she  moaned,  sinking  back  as  if 
under  a  blow.  "Already?  I  didn't  think  you  would 
desert  me  in  my  misery.  No,  I  had  not  expected  this. 
This  is,  indeed,  a  bolt  from  the  blue." 

"And  you  are  not  glad?  Not  glad  of  my  happi- 
ness?" he  asked,  disappointed  and  confounded. 

' '  You  don 't  understand.  You  know  my  misery.  You 
are  all  I  have;  and  you  leave  me — for  a  girl." 

"Good  heavens,  mother,  doesn't  every  man?  Isn't 
it  in  the  Bible?  Didn't  you  do  it  yourself  twice? 
Didn't  you  leave  your  only  son  and  your  first  husband's 
memory  for  a  man " 

"You  are  hard,  Richard,  hard.  I  have  lost  you  al- 
ready, I  see.  How  am  I  to  endure  my  life  now  ? ' ' 

"You  have  not  lost  me.  But  you  have  gained  an- 
other daughter.  And  you  are  fond  of  her  and  she  of 


MY   SON'S   WIFE  71 

you.  When  I  am  at  sea  she  will  be  near  you;  you  will 
have  a  home  with  her.  She  is  a  good  girl.  Oh!  you 
ought  to  be  glad. ' ' 

''I  shall  be  second;  she  will  be  first.  I  was  always 
first  before.  This  is  a  blow,  indeed,"  she  wept. 

"By  Heaven,  mother!"  thundered  Richard,  with 
blazing  eyes,  "you  expect  too  much,  you  are  too  exact- 
ing and  too  unreasonable.  As  for  being  second  with  me  ? 
Well !  A  mother  is  a  mother,  a  wife  a  wife.  The  things 
can't  be  compared.  Because  you  made  an  unfortunate 
marriage,  do  you  expect  me  to  live  single  ?  Do  you  mean 
that  you  would  be  happier  if  I  were  wretched  ?  By  the 
Lord,  that's  a  strange  sort  of  comfort,  a  fine  way  of 
showing  affection !  By " 

"I  can  not  suffer  this  violence,"  she  cried  indig- 
nantly ;  ' '  you  forget  to  whom  you  are  speaking,  Richard. 
You  choose  to  misunderstand  me  and  misrepresent  what 
I  say.  You  are  absolutely  brutal.  You  know  that  my 
nerves  can  not  stand  that  stamping  up  and  down  and  that 
loud,  angry  voice." 

"Oh!  I'm  brutal,  am  I?"  he  muttered  under  his 
breath.  ' '  Brutal !  By  all  that  'a  holy,  brutal ! ' ' 

He  forced  himself  into  a  chair  and  clutched  the  arms 
of  it,  as  if  to  keep  himself  from  moving  by  main  force, 
while  Edith  dropped  her  arms  on  the  little  table  beneath 
the  shaded  lamp  and  her  head  on  her  arms,  and  cried 
helplessly,  like  a  child. 

"Come,  mother,"  he  said,  after  some  seconds,  during 
which  he  resisted  an  impulse  to  rush  away  in  a  fury, 
"don't  go  on  like  this.  If  I  have  hurt  your  feelings  I 
didn't  mean  to,  and  I'm  sorry.  Very  likely  I  said  more 
than  I  should." 

"That  my  own  son  should  turn  against  me!"  she 
sobbed. 

Disgust,  indignation,  and  pity  fought  together  for 
some  minutes  in  her  son's  thoughts,  and  the  latter  con- 
quered. 

' '  But  what  have  I  done.  Muff  1     Tell  me  the  head  and 


72  RICHARD   ROSNY 

front  of  my  offending, ' '  he  said  with  constrained  gentle- 
ness. 

"Why  bandy  words'?"  she  returned.  "You  have 
neither  sympathy  nor  consideration  for  me,  and  I  was 
foolish  enough  to  expect  both;  that  is  all." 

' '  Poor  Muff !  You  have  real  troubles  enough,  without 
fancying  more,"  he  said  with  repressed  impatience. 
"Well,  I'm  sorry  that  I've  upset  you;  more  sorry  that 
you  dislike  my  engagement. ' ' 

"You  might  at  least  have  confided  in  me,"  she  re- 
proached, leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  drying  her  eyes. 
"It  seems  to  have  been  all  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered 
without  the  faintest  hint  to  your  mother.  Not  that  I 
was  blind.  I  quite  understood  the  music-lessons,"  she 
added  with  an  acid  smile. 

' '  Why,  I  never  said  a  word  to  her  till  to-day,  mother. 
Then  I  said  it  all,  and  her  father  surprised  us  and  gave 
his  consent  and  I  came  straight  to  you,  thinking  you 
would  be  glad.  I  thought,"  he  added  plaintively,  after 
a  pause, ' '  I  thought  it  would  brighten  you  up  and  lighten 
your  own  troubles  a  little.  I  thought  you  were  fond  of 
her;  you  always  had  a  high  opinion  of  her.  I  thought 
you  would  consider  it  a  good  thing  for  me  to  have  a  wife 
and  a  home  of  my  own  and  steady  down.  I  never 
dreamed  of  your  opposing  my  marriage  with  this  lady." 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  expostulated  with  an  air  of  pa- 
tient long-suffering,  "you  can  not  know  how  very  trying 
you  are.  Men's  perceptions  are  certainly  very  blunt. 
Why  will  you  so  persistently  misunderstand  me  1  When 
have  I  expressed  opposition  to  your  marriage?  When 
have  I  preferred  my  own  happiness  to  yours?" 

' '  By  jingo ! ' '  muttered  Richard  below  his  breath,  "  if  I 
didn  't  think  her  troubles  had  driven  her  wild ! ' ' 

"Why  should  you  deny  me  your  confidence  as  you 
do?  You  refuse  that.  You  utterly  ignore  my  interest 
in  all  that  concerns  you " 

"Oh,  Lord!"  thought  Richard,  "if  she  isn't  cracked, 
lam!" 


MY   SON'S   WIFE  73 

"You  impute  the  most  unamiable  motives  to  me,  and 
why?  You  inform  me  in  the  most  sudden  and  violent 
manner  of  an  approaching  marriage  you  appear  to  have 
arranged  with  some  unknown  person.  And  then  when, 
in  my  foolish  womanly  weakness  for  my  first-born,  not  to 
speak  of  wounded  affection  and  repulsed  confidence,  I 
am  surprised  into  the  emotion  that  every  mother  with 
any  heart  must  feel  at  the  thought  of  such  a  parting  of 
the  ways  as  a  beloved  son's  marriage  with  a  stranger,  in- 
stead of  the  consideration  and  sympathy  every  mother 
has  a  right  to  expect,  you  give  way  to  the  most  un- 
governable fury  and  terrify  me  to  death  with  a  violence 
that  is  perfectly  brutal.  You  rage  and  storm  and  lac- 
erate my  nerves  with  your  unjust  upbraidings  and  re- 
proaches. You — "  She  sighed  and  shook  her  head 
sadly,  as  if  mere  words  were  powerless  to  express  her 
pain. 

"I  seem  to  be  a  perfect  beast,  Muff,  according  to 
you,"  he  replied,  very  gently,  surprised  at  the  great 
wave  of  tenderness  surging  up  in  his  breast  for  this  frail 
and  unreasonable  mother,  so  overburdened  and  blinded 
by  the  necessities  of  her  hypersensitive  emotions  and 
boundless,  unconscious  egoism.  In  a  moment  he  realized 
that  no  sympathy  must  ever  be  expected  of  one  so  pre- 
occupied by  her  own  sorrows  and  needs,  so  incapable  of 
seeing,  much  less  feeling,  from  any  point  of  view  but  her 
own,  and  knew  that  hers  was  one  of  those  parasitic  na- 
tures that  twine  so  tenaciously,  by  virtue  of  their  very 
weakness,  round  the  nearest  supports  as  to  crush  the  life 
out  of  them.  This  jealousy  of  all  interests  but  her  own 
was  pitiable.  The  old,  immense  compassion  that  dated 
from  his  very  cradle  woke  again,  and  with  it  that  deep- 
rooted  instinct  to  cherish  and  protect  her  before  every- 
thing. He  neither  reasoned,  nor  analyzed  his  feelings, 
but  it  suddenly  became  clear  to  him  that  his  affection  for 
his  mother  was  deeper  and  stronger  than  life  itself,  and 
that  nothing  could  ever  change  or  weaken  it.  Yet  this 
very  conviction  increased  the  irritation  and  impatience 


74  RICHARD   ROSNY 

she  provoked   in  him,   and  sharpened  his   disappoint- 
ment at  her  refusal  to  rejoice  with  him  in  his  first  great 

joy. 

He  was  very  glad,  after  she  had  talked  herself  into 
some  sort  of  grudging  acquiescence  in  his  engagement 
with  Kathleen  Musgrave,  since  he  must  be  engaged,  to 
leave  her  and  stand  outside  the  house  under  the  stars, 
drawing  free  breath  and  shaking  off  the  goaded  sense  of 
being  pricked  and  stabbed  all  over.  He  drew  out  his 
pipe  and  tobacco-pouch,  infallible  soothers,  filled  the 
pipe,  struck  a  match,  and  was  just  about  to  draw  the 
first  whiff,  when  he  threw  down  the  match  with  a  joyous 
laugh  and  murmur  of  '  *  Kitty,  Kitty,  did  you  know  what 
you  were  asking,  you  dear  little  tyrant  ? ' '  and  lighted  his 
bicycle  lamp  instead. 

Soon  his  mother  heard  the  light  crunch  of  the  wheel  on 
the  gravel  and  a  mellow  voice  singing 

"  Kathleen  Mavourneen,  the  gray  dawn  is  breaking, 

The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
The  lark  from  his  light  wing  the  bright  dew  is  shaking," 

into  the  inaudible  distance. 

"Ah!  yes,"  she  thought  bitterly,  "all  his  life  is  set 
to  that  tune  now.  And  mine  to  '  Willow,  willow ! '  ' 

Yet  she  found  the  sympathy  she  sought  for  the  mis- 
fortune of  her  son's  proposed  marriage  in  the  least  ex- 
pected quarter,  from  Kitty  herself. 

"Of  course,  you'll  hate  me  for  the  first  week,  dear 
Mrs.  Helton,"  the  latter  said  in  the  prettiest  way,  when 
they  met  next  day.  "People  always  do  when  their  sons 
and  brothers  are  engaged.  But  you  have  no  cause.  I 
shall  never  take  him  away  from  you.  I  would  never 
have  listened  to  him,  if  I  hadn't  known  what  a  good  son 
he  was.  I'm  a  little  jealous,  I  own.  But  I  won't  give 
way  to  it.  And  some  day  you'll  have  to  be  fond  of  me, 
too!" 

"Of  course,  dear,  it  is  a  great  grief  to  me,"  was  the 
melancholy  rejoinder.  "It  is  hard  to  lose  my  precious 


MY   SON'S    WIFE  75 

boy  so  early.  But  he  could  not  have  made  a  better 
choice,  Kitty.  Indeed,  we  are  all  delighted." 

Among  those  delighted  was  Mr.  Belton,  whose 
spirits,  none  of  the  best  after  his  opium  sleep,  were 
raised  to  an  unusual  gaiety  at  receiving  the  announce- 
ment. 

"What  could  you  wish  better  for  the  boy,  Edith?" 
he  asked  impatiently.  "It's  quite  time  he  had  a  wife 
and  family  of  his  own,  instead  of  ruining  our  children 
by  all  kinds  of  indulgence,  and  putting  all  sorts  of 
nonsense  into  their  heads.  Gerald  would  never  have 
clamored  to  go  into  the  navy  but  for  Rosny.  Gerald 
shall  never  go  into  the  navy,  as  I've  told  him  again 
and  again.  Kitty  Musgrave  is  a  very  good  match.  A 
charming  girl,  extremely  good-looking  and  no  fool. 
The  sooner  they  marry  the  better;  what  is  to  hinder 
them?" 

"Really,  dear  Horace,  I  was  under  the  impression 
that  you  disliked  any  connection  with  the  Musgraves. 
Addie  's  music-lessons ' ' 

"Confound  Addie 's  music-lessons!  Can't  you  un- 
derstand, Edith,  that  my  children  are  not  to  be  treated 
as  paupers?  Adeline  shall  go  to  a  finishing  school  by 
and  by.  Or,  perhaps,  we  might  let  the  Pines  and  take  a 
house  in  town  for  a  few  seasons  and  give  the  eldest  girls 
masters.  It  is  the  same  with  the  boys.  Your  son  is  per- 
petually worrying  me  or  setting  you  on  to  worry  me  to 
send  the  boys  to  school.  Some  day  I  shall  send  Gerald 
to  a  better  school  and  Archie  to  the  grammar-school.  I 
need  no  interference  with  my  plans  for  my  children's 
education.  Let  them  be  thoroughly  grounded  at  home 
and  by  and  by " 

It  was  always  by  and  by  with  poor  Belton,  as 
his  wife  knew.  The  book,  the  picture,  the  invention, 
he  was  perpetually  engaged  upon,  was  to  take  the 
world  by  storm — by  and  by.  The  speculations  in  which 
he  was  always  losing  were  to  make  his  fortune — by 
and  by.  And  by  and  by  he  was  going  to  conquer  un- 


76  RICHARD   ROSNY 

fortunate   habits   and   sober   down   into    a   respectable 
old  age. 

' '  But  when  will  it  be  by  and  by,  papa  ? ' '  little  Harry 
asked  one  day,  and  Adeline  and  Gerald  whispered  to 
each  other  the  pregnant  sentence,  "It  is  never  by  and 
by  and  it  never  will  be." 


CHAPTER   VII 

ON     THE     DOWNS 

THOSE  September  days  glided  by  in  a  golden  dream ; 
the  world  had  been  touched  and  transformed  by  an  en- 
chanter's wand;  glamour  lay  on  every  commonest  thing; 
the  windlestraws  on  life's  dusty  highways  and  hedges 
were  transmuted  to  beaten  gold  by  the  level  rays  of 
love's  auroral  sunshine. 

That  the  pretty  flush  should  mount  in  Kitty's  dainty 
face  and  her  gentle  heart  beat  quicker  at  the  step  of  a 
reckless,  harum-scarum  fellow  like  himself  was  an  endless 
wonder  to  Richard.  That  she  should  win  all  hearts,  both 
at  Merstone  and  the  Pines,  was  natural,  and  yet  he  could 
scarcely  believe  his  senses  when  he  found  himself  dining 
at  his  stepfather's  table,  the  fellow  guest  of  Kitty  and 
her  father  and  mother,  two  days  after  the  engagement 
had  been  announced.  It  was  many  years  since  any  guest 
had  dined  in  that  faded  room,  and  it  was  not  without 
agonizing  terror  on  the  part  of  his  mother,  and  some 
trepidation  on  his  own,  as  to  the  host's  possible  condition, 
that  the  dinner  was  contemplated. 

But,  Mr.  Belton  having  decreed  this  domestic  festi- 
val, nothing  would  dissuade  him  from  it ;  it  was  a  neces- 
sary civility  to  offer  to  his  wife 's  future  daughter-in-law. 
Nor  were  his  wife 's  fears  justified ;  for,  whether  by  a  su- 
preme effort  in  deference  to  some  surviving  self-respect, 
or  because  recent  indulgence  had  sent  the  pendulum  in 
the  opposite  direction,  poor  Belton  kept  straight  for 
many  days  at  this  time,  and  looked  and  spoke  on  that 
evening  more  like  his  former  self  than  he  had  done  for 
years.  Time  was  when  he  had  been  a  fascinating  com- 
6  77 


78  RICHARD   ROSNY 

panion  and  genial  host ;  and  Richard,  on  this  occasion  ob- 
serving a  pathetic  return  of  some  of  the  old  lost  charm 
in  his  stepfather,  set  it  down  as  one  more  tribute  to  the 
all-compelling  beauty  and  graciousness  of  sweet  Kitty 
Musgrave,  who  dutifully  brought  all  her  guns  to  bear 
upon  the  fortress  of  Mr.  Belton's  heart. 

"Nothing  could  be  more  perfect  than  Mr.  Belton's 
reception  of  me,"  she  confided  to  Rosny.  "And  after 
all  a  stepdaughter-in-law  is  not  a  very  close  connection. 
Do  you  know,  Richie,  you  scarcely  do  him  justice.  Why, 
he 's  a  charming  man !  And  he  spoke  so  kindly  of  you. 
He  said  that  he  always  wished  to  be  a  father  to  you  and 
always  felt  as  one,  but  that  you  never  quite  understood 
him,  and,  of  course,  it  was  perfectly  natural,  though  it 
gave  him  pain.  Poor,  dear  old  man !  think  of  that. ' ' 

' '  Gave  him  pain  ?  Hm !  Kitty,  darling,  I  've  always 
said  that  he  was  kind  to  me — in  his  way.  He  let  me  alone. 
But  I  always  felt  that  he  hated  me.  I  was  in  his  way; 
and,  as  he  says,  it  was  perfectly  natural.  So  I  don 't  un- 
derstand him?  It's  not  always  too  delightful  to  be  un- 
derstood. Sometimes  people  understand  one  another  too 
well." 

"Doesn't  somebody  say  that  to  know  all  is  to  pardon 
all,  Richard  ?  Or  isn  't  it  that  to  know  thoroughly  is  to 
love  thoroughly?" 

"In  the  case  of  angels  like  my  Kathleen — I  dare  say 
it's  true,"  he  replied,  looking  rather  wistfully  in  the 
bright  face  so  near  his  as  he  held  a  gate  opening  on  to 
the  down,  where  they  were  walking  on  a  breezy  forenoon, 
for  her  to  pass  through.  "But — oh!  Kitty,  darling,  it's 
a  wicked,  wicked  world,  much  more  wicked  than  such  as 
you  can  possibly  imagine.  And  it 's  best  not  to  know  too 
much,  else  such  as  you  would  never  care  for  such  as  I,  I  'm 
afraid." 

"Richard,  you  shall  not  say  such  things;  one  would 
think  I  was  a  saint.  And  everybody  who  knows  me 
knows  better  than  that.  Oh !  how  disappointed  you  will 
be  when  you  find  me  out.  And  as  for  not  caring  for  such 


ON   THE   DOWNS  79 

as  you — do  you  think  I  could  ever  have  cared  for  you  if 
I  hadn't  admired  your  character  and  been  perfectly  cer- 
tain that  there  was  nothing  in  you  that  I  could  not 
honor  and  trust?" 

' '  Ah !  Kitty,  darling,  how  sweet  of  you  to  say  it !  But 
I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  care  for  me,  if  you  knew  all. 
And  that  is  why  you  must  shut  your  eyes  and  not  see 
too  much.  Dear,  there  are  things — things — better  hid- 
den  " 

"Oh!  but  this  hurts,"  she  said,  visibly  distressed; 
"that  is,  it  would  hurt,  if  it  were  true.  But  it's  not," 
she  added,  stopping,  as  they  came  to  another  gate,  and 
clasping  her  hands  on  his  arm  with  a  sudden,  sweet  smile 
of  childlike  confidence ;  "  I  could  never  feel  as  I  do,  else. ' ' 

He  turned  his  head  away;  when  she  saw  his  face 
again,  it  was  pale  and  his  eyes  glowed  with  a  deep  fire 
that  perplexed  and  troubled  her;  he  seemed  to  be  re- 
pressing some  strong  impulse,  while  the  arm  she  clasped 
quivered  under  her  light  touch. 

"But  suppose,"  he  rejoined,  slowly  and  very  seri- 
ously, "suppose  you  found  you  were  mistaken  in  me — 
would  you  leave  off — loving  me?"  She  looked  up  into 
the  blazing  blue  eyes  and  her  own  fell ;  he  saw  the  deli- 
cate curve  of  her  under  lip  quiver  as  he  took  the  hands 
clasped  on  his  left  arm  in  his  other  hand  in  a  firm,  almost 
fierce,  grip. 

"I  am  not  mistaken,"  she  faltered,  with  the  curious 
courage  that  coexists  with  terror.  "But — don't  hide 
anything.  There  must  be  no  secrets  between  us.  There 
must  be  full  confidence." 

"I've  not  been  a  good  man,  Kitty.  But  I  will  be,  oh ! 
I  will  be,  if  you  will  only  love  me,"  a  fierce,  deep  voice 
burst  out,  with  a  tighter  grip  on  the  slender,  pained 
hands. 

' '  Who  has  been  quite  good  ? ' '  murmured  a  soft,  liquid 
voice  from  the  face  hidden  on  his  arm.  It  stole  caress- 
ingly through  his  ear  to  the  depths  of  his  inmost  heart, 
quickening  every  pulse  like  a  draft  of  fine  wine. 


80  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Who,  indeed?"  he  echoed.  "But,  darling,  I'm 
afraid  it 's  begging  the  question,  after  all.  Mavourneen, 
I  think,  I  think,  you  really  do  love  me — enough  to  for- 
give much. ' ' 

A  slight  trembling  of  the  warm,  hidden  face  gave  the 
impression  that  she  was  crying,  and  evoked  from  Richard 
such  a  sudden  passionate  outburst  of  tenderness  as  car- 
ried them  both  away  and  made  them  forget  all  but  that 
young  intoxication  of  a  first,  spotless  love-dream,  in 
mutual  assurances,  promises,  hopes  and  doubts,  questions 
and  answers,  and  such  tender  and  restrained  caresses  as 
chivalrous  homage  permits. 

"The  whole  world  is  changed  for  me,  Mavourneen, 
and  all  my  thoughts  are  made  cleaner  and  better  since  the 
day  I  first  saw  your  face, ' '  sighed  Richard  later,  from  his 
place  on  the  turf  at  the  feet  of  Kathleen,  who  was  half 
reclined  in  the  shelter  of  a  red-berried  thorn  hedge  on  a 
sunny  bank,  where  wild  thyme  still  bloomed  and  sweet 
marjoram,  and  scabious  and  delicate  saxifrage,  with  yel- 
low hawkweed,  and  here  and  there  a  harebell  showed 
how  tenacious  of  life  the  most  fragile  creatures  can  be, 
and  many  a  purple  knapweed,  with  euphrasia,  rock-roses, 
and  other  flowers,  suggested  the  question  of  what  May 
could  be  like  if  autumn  bloomed  so  freely. 

From  a  stubble-field  hard  by  a  covey  of  partridges 
whirred  up  and  over  a  hedge  tangled  with  berried  bram- 
bles, bracken,  and  briony,  the  scent  of  burning  weeds  rose 
with  fitful  pungency  on  the  light  breeze,  sheep  browsed 
near  the  lovers,  far  off  the  sea  sparkled,  deeply  blue  with 
thin  white  foam-crests,  while  a  train  drew  a  long  white 
smoke-trail  through  the  rich  harvested  plain  below  and 
rumbled  into  silence  out  of  sight. 

"You  might  make  anything  out  of  me,"  he  added, 
"with  those  white,  pretty  hands.  Oh !  I  am  wax  to  their 
touch.  Strange,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  a 
look,  a  touch,  or  a  word  from  a  thing  so  fragile  should 
have  such  power  over  a  great,  strong  fellow  like  me." 

Kitty  smiled  sweetly  and  subtly  into  the  strong  and 


ON   THE   DOWNS  81 

vivid  face  propped  on  its  hands  on  the  turf  before  her, 
too  happy  for  words.  A  great  pride  rose  in  her  heart 
and  mingled  with  her  love  at  the  sight  of  the  stalwart 
figure  at  her  feet ;  he  was  a  man  in  the  fullest  and  finest 
sense.  She  remembered  the  stories  she  had  heard  of  him, 
of  his  dashing  rush  up  a  savage  country  in  command  of  a 
battery  of  bluejackets,  of  the  gun-carriage  he  contrived 
on  that  occasion  and  of  the  lives  he  had  so  gallantly  res- 
cued at  risk  of  his  own.  The  sweet  down-breath,  scent 
of  burning  weeds  and  crushed  thyme,  tinkling  sheep- 
bells,  distant  rumbling  train  and  cawing  rooks — all  min- 
gled with  the  wide  blueness  and  beauty  and  sense  of  airy 
space  outspread  before  them,  tincturing  and  giving  vis- 
ible form  to  the  feelings  of  their  hearts  in  that  sunny 
autumn  time. 

And  in  all  this  open-air  freshness  and  tranquil  de- 
light there  came  upon  Richard,  as  it  were,  wave  upon 
wave  of  purity  from  Kitty's  clear  eyes,  cleansing  and 
quickening  every  faculty  and  bearing  him  away  on  a 
calm,  swift  flood  to  shores  of  unknown  hope.  The  things 
they  were  to  do,  the  miracles  to  perform !  The  children 
were  to  have  a  second  and  better  home,  Mrs.  Belton  a 
refuge  from  care  and  sorrow  with  them. 

Yet  poor  Edith  contrived  at  this  time  to  manufacture 
many  fresh  pains  for  herself.  Kathleen's  affection  and 
consideration  for  her  were  at  first  wholly  delightful.  She 
enjoyed  having  her  at  the  Pines  and  accompanying  the 
young  pair  on  sailing  and  driving  excursions.  But  there 
was  another  side  to  the  picture.  Richard's  filial  obliga- 
tions were  now  divided ;  while  Kitty  paid  every  possible 
attention  to  herself,  Richard  fulfilled  his  duty  to  her 
father  and  mother.  If  Kitty  was  at  the  Pines  one  day, 
Rosny  was  due  at  Ingrestone  House  the  next ;  if,  she 
found  Kitty  lovable  and  fascinating,  her  son  appeared 
to  delight  in  the  Musgraves.  Worse  than  that,  he  openly 
wondered  how  such  a  young  and  handsome  woman  as 
Mrs.  Musgrave  could  be  the  mother  of  grown-up  sons  and 
married  daughters.  Mrs.  Belton  hinted  at  secrets  of  the 


82  RICHARD   ROSNY 

toilet  and  praised  the  virtues  of  Parisian  corsets,  cosmet- 
ics, powders,  and  dyes.  There  were  even  suggestions  of 
milk-baths  and  massage,  all  scouted  with  indignation  by 
Richard,  and  therefore  advanced  again  with  increasing 
acrimony  by  his  mother.  The  phrase  "made-up"  was 
pronounced  and  repudiated. 

But  the  unkindest  cut  of  destiny  came  when,  Rosny 
having  joined  his  ship,  the  Musgraves  went  with  Kath- 
leen to  Southsea  to  be  near  a  soldier  son  for  a  few  weeks, 
during  which  Edith  heard  of  luncheons  and  dances 
on  board  the  Formidable  and  of  Kitty's  pleasure  in  all 
the  appointments  and  arrangements  of  battle-ships.  It 
seemed  hard  that  she  could  never  meet  her  son  in  society. 
Her  ' '  only  son, ' '  she  often  called  him,  to  the  fury  of  her 
husband,  doubtless  meaning,  poor  soul,  that  he  was  the 
only  son  and  the  only  human  being  on  whom  she  could 
throw  the  whole  weight  of  her  clinging  weakness  and 
heavy  cares. 

It  may  have  been  some  irrepressible  bitterness  of  this 
kind  in  one  of  her  long  letters  to  him  that  induced  Rosny 
to  press  her  to  go  to  Southsea  at  the  end  of  November. 
Gerald  was  at  school,  Addie  and  Molly  might  come  with 
her,  leaving  only  Archie  and  the  little  ones  at  home.  It 
would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  take  her  over  his  ship  and 
bring  his  friends  to  her,  he  grew  urgent  as  he  wrote. 
"Muffle,  come,"  was  the  postscript,  underlined. 

She  received  this  letter  on  a  cheerless  November  day, 
gray  and  grim,  with  never  a  lift  in  the  leaden  clouds 
glooming  low  and  heavy  over  saddened  earth  and  half- 
stripped  woods.  A  fine  rain  that  was  half  mist  floated 
on  a  weary  wind,  moaning  fitfully  in  the  pines,  the  black 
tops  of  which  swayed  and  bent  with  harsh  grind  of  cross- 
ing boughs  before  windows  blurred  with  drops.  The 
breakfast-table,  surrounded  by  unmanageable  children, 
had  a  squalid  air ;  a  cup  of  coffee  was  overset  in  a  squab- 
ble. It  was  one  of  those  mornings  on  which  all  things  do- 
mestic go  wrong — servants  are  rebellious,  children  tire- 
some, tradespeople  exasperating,  when  accounts  will  not 


ON   THE   DOWNS  83 

come  right,  clocks  stop,  fires  refuse  to  burn,  and  every- 
thing either  breaks,  explodes,  or  is  lost,  unless  it  is  alive, 
when  it  either  runs  away  or  is  taken  seriously  ill. 

Edith's  rest  had  been  canceled  by  the  nerve- wearing 
sound  of  her  husband's  ever-pacing  footstep,  up  and 
down  and  in  and  out,  now  monotonously  even,  now  exas- 
perating in  its  impatient  irregularity,  but  never,  never 
still ;  she  felt  that  she  could  bear  the  strain  no  longer  if 
she  were  to  keep  sane,  without  the  relief  of  some  interval 
of  forgetfulness.  One  week's  forgetfulness  might  save 
her. 

She  raised  her  eyes  at  the  sound  of  the  suddenly 
opened  door,  to  see  the  haggard  face,  livid  with  fury,  of 
her  husband,  whose  shaking  hand  held  the  well-known 
stick,  that  hurt  her  far  more  than  the  culprits  on  whom  it 
descended  with  angry  reproaches  for  the  noise  that  had 
roused  him. 

"I  wish  to  goodness  he  would  sleep — and  never  wake 
up  any  more, ' '  sobbed  Archie,  when  the  door  closed  upon 
him,  after  an  indiscriminate  measure  of  stick  had  been 
dealt  out  to  all,  and  received  with  one  deep,  unanimous 
sense  of  injustice. 

"We  will  leave  him  alone  for  ten  days,"  Edith  de- 
cided, shaken  by  this  scene  and  the  growing  conviction 
that  the  children  ought  not  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  their 
hardly  responsible  father.  In  this  strain  she  wrote  to 
Richard. 

But  three  days  later  Rosny  received  a  short,  sad  note 
to  say  that  Belton  would  not  hear  of  her  leaving  the 
Pines  even  for  a  day. 

This  episode  was  recounted  some  few  days  later  to 
Godfrey  Belton,  who  chanced  to  be  making  one  of  his 
rare  visits,  and  walked  out  after  luncheon  with  Edith  and 
the  children. 

"But  I  do  not  agree  with  you,  my  dear  Edith,  in 
your  deduction  from  these  regrettable  scenes  that  Hor- 
ace should  be  separated  entirely  from  his  children,"  he 
said  at  the  conclusion  of  the  history.  ' '  You  do  not  real- 


84  RICHARD   ROSNY 

ize  that  his  children  are  his  one  chance  of  redemption. 
Nor  do  you  perceive  that  jealousy  is  at  the  root  of  much 
of  his  arbitrary  and  injudicious  treatment  of  them. 
Horace  sees  very  plainly  that  he  is  last  in  their  affec- 
tions. And  this  is  very  bitter  to  him.  The  elder  chil- 
dren are  disrespectful  to  him  and  avoid  him ;  the  younger 
ones  are  afraid  of  him  and  avoid  him.  None  appear  to 
have  the  slightest  affection  for  their  father,  except  per- 
haps Gerald.  Surely,  my  dear,  they  might  be  trained  to 
more  dutiful  conduct  and  feeling  toward  one  who,  of  all 
people,  has  the  greatest  claim  upon  their  affection  and  re- 
spect. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  Uncle  Godfrey,  how  can  they  respect  him,  while 
they  see  and  hear  what  they  do  in  this  house  ?  And  how 
can  they  love  one  who  treats  them  with  such  cruelty  and 
injustice?"  she  returned.  "That  is  why  it  is  so  terri- 
ble for  them  to  be  with  him.  They  are  being  ruined. 
What  can  we  do  ?  If  my  health  gives  wray  entirely,  as  I 
feel  it  must  before  long,  what  will  become  of  them  1 ' ' 

"Your  health  must  not  give  way,  Edith.  Your  duty 
to  your  husband  and  children  forbids  it.  Exercise  your 
will,  show  courage,"  he  said,  irritated  by  the  too-ready 
tears  following  the  breaking  voice.  ' '  The  children  must 
go  to  school  and  they  must  be  taught  to  practise  the  Fifth 
Commandment.  I  shall  urge  it  strongly  upon  Horace. 
Indeed,  I  came  here  for  the  express  purpose." 

"Rosny  has  been  putting  you  up  to  this,"  was  Bel- 
ton's  first  comment  upon  his  uncle's  urgent  representa- 
tion; "he's  a  meddlesome  young  brute,  always  cockering 
up  the  youngsters  and  making  them  discontented  and  un- 
manageable. ' ' 

"You  should  understand  that  I  am  not  the  kind  of 
person  to  be  'put  up  to'  what  I  conceive  to  be  my  duty, 
Horace.  Much  less  do  I  need  the  advice  and  instigation 
of  one  so  much  my  junior  as  your  stepson.  The  young 
man  is  naturally  attached  to  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
Any  indulgence  he  may  show  them  upon  his  visits  to  your 
house  can  scarcely  harm  them.  They  do  not  expect  dis- 


ON   THE   DOWNS  85 

cipline  from  a  mere  visitor,  however  closely  related.  The 
best  way  to  preserve  them  from  any  such  injurious  in- 
dulgence as  you  indicate  would  be  to  place  them  in  good 
schools,  where  neither  their  mother  nor  their  brother 
would  be  permitted  to  interfere  with  them.  I  observe 
that  your  nerves  are  intolerant  of  the  noise  and  vivacity 
inevitable  to  healthy  children.  It  would  surely  be  an 
advantage  to  one  in  your  indifferent  health  to  have  a 
quieter  household." 

"That's  my  own  affair.  The  children's  good  is  the 
great  thing,  my  dear  uncle." 

"Consult  their  good  by  educating  them  properly.  I 
will  gladly  undertake  all  arrangements  and  find  proper 
schools  for  the  four  eldest." 

1 '  You  are  very  good.  But  I  allow  no  one  to  interfere 
with  my  children's  education.  My  girls  shall  never  be- 
come those  odious  creatures,  boarding-school  misses. ' ' 

"Then  let  them  have  a  good  visiting  governess." 

"Their  mother  and  I  between  us  can  teach  all  they 
need  to  learn,  thank  you." 

"Come,  Horace,  let  us  be  plain  and  open.  You  are 
fully  aware  that  your  allowance  is  calculated  to  include 
your  children's  education.  Unless  it  is  put  to  its  proper 
use  it  must  be  reduced,  and  that  instantly. ' ' 

Belton  laughed  bitterly.  "My  allowance,  as  you  so 
considerately  call  it,  is  anticipated  for  the  next  two 
years,"  he  explained.  "Putting  that  play  of  mine  on 
the  stage  was  no  joke ;  it  ran  into  four  figures. ' ' 

"I  will  guarantee  the  school-fees  for  two  years." 

' '  Thank  you.  My  children  are  not  paupers.  If  this 
book  scores  a  success,  as  it  will,  when  I  can  bring  it  out, 
I  shall  be  a  wealthy  and  celebrated  man." 

' '  Then  you  could  repay  me. ' ' 

"No  doubt,  and  with  compound  interest.  But  no 
honorable  man  contracts  obligations  of  the  ultimate  dis- 
charge of  which  he  is  doubtful,"  was  the  velvet  re- 
joinder. 

"You  talk  of  honor!    You!"  cried  his  uncle,  rising 


86  RICHARD   ROSNY 

from  his  chair  and  bringing  his  clenched  fist  down  upon 
the  table.  ' '  By  the  Heaven  that  is  above  us,  Horace,  you 
will  drive  me  to  stopping  the  allowance  altogether. ' ' 

"And  starve  the  youngsters?  Let  the  brats  be 
chargeable  to  the  parish?"  replied  Horace,  languidly 
stretching  himself  in  his  long  chair  and  reaching  across 
the  table  for  a  cigar. 

' '  I  wish  we  had  never  hushed  the  thing  up, ' '  Godfrey 
said.  ' '  If  justice  had  taken  its  course,  those  unfortunate 
children  would  have  been  out  of  your  power.  But  for 
Edith,  we  should  have  exposed  the  whole  matter — but 
for  Edith  and  the  poor  children's  sake.  Indeed,  I  doubt 
if  it  might  not  still  be  done,"  he  added  fiercely. 

Belton  laughed  an  irritating  laugh  and  clasped  his 
hands  comfortably  behind  his  head  on  his  high-backed 
chair. 

"But  for  the  firm's  sake,  you  mean,"  he  drawled, 
staring  straight  before  him  into  the  fire.  ' '  That  impec- 
cable firm!" 

"Upon  my  soul,  Horace,  I  sometimes  wonder  if  you 
were  born  devoid  of  all  sense  of  moral  responsibility. ' ' 

"I  don't.  I  was  always  sure  of  it.  Consider  the 
boredom  of  a  sense  of  moral  responsibility,  Uncle  God- 
frey. It  ages  a  man,  makes  him  an  old  fogy  before  his 
time.  It  ruins  the  temper  and  undermines  the  digestion. 
It  spoils  conversation  and  destroys  ease  of  manner.  Tell 
me  frankly  now,  did  you  ever  know  a  man  wrorth  talking 
to  with  a  sense  of  moral  responsibility?  I  never  did. 
And  never  shall. ' ' 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE     CHRIST1IAS     TREE 

CHRISTMAS  came  crisp  and  cloudy,  with  a  hint  of 
frost  in  the  air,  and  a  menace  of  snow  in  lowering  skies, 
dark  seas,  and  moaning  woods.  The  black  pine-tops, 
whose  musical  murmur  so  rarely  died  into  stillness,  com- 
plained among  themselves  of  some  intolerable  wrong,  or 
rolled  out  from  time  to  time  in  a  deep-voiced  chant  the 
tragic  tale  of  some  old,  never-healed  calamity;  again 
their  hoarse  and  sealike  surge  seemed  to  forebode  some 
terrible  disaster  as  they  swayed  in  slow  and  solemn 
rhythm  before  the  gray,  gaunt  house  and  over  the  needle- 
strewn  paths  in  which  the  children  played  beneath  their 
boughs  with  joyous  shouts  and  laughter. 

Their  father  sat  in  a  deep  easy  chair  by  his  study  fire, 
wrapped  in  a  shabby  dressing-gown,  bearded  because  his 
shaking  hand  could  no  longer  guide  a  razor,  haggard  and 
sunken-eyed,  a  melancholy  wreck  of  the  handsome  man, 
clear-eyed  and  clean-limbed,  who  had  waited  for  the  de- 
laying bride  on  the  cottage-step  that  autumn  afternoon 
while  Wimbury  joy-bells  were  ringing,  fifteen  years  ago. 

The  study  was  full  of  books,  chiefly  sumptuous  or 
rare  editions.  Some  quaint  tomes  on  magic,  alchemy, 
and  astrology  were  there  and  a  few  black-letter  chronicles 
and  romances,  with  here  and  there  a  lovely  illuminated 
missal,  golden-clasped  and  jeweled.  A  few  modern  vol- 
umes on  Art,  with  engravings  on  obsolete  steel,  and  re- 
productions by  the  latest  processes  of  photogravure,  were 
piled  upon  the  broader  shelves.  Turf  chronicles  and 
books  upon  sport  were  jumbled  up  with  new  plays,  deca- 
dent novels  in  three  languages  and  dramatic  and  sport- 

87 


88  RICHARD   ROSNY 

ing  periodicals  of  recent  date,  with  volumes  on  the 
latest  hints  to  investors.  The  works  of  Horace  Belton 
in  dandified  bindings  occupied  a  conspicuous  place. 
An  Unsentimental  Journey  through  Sweden,  beautifully 
illustrated,  was  a  verbose  and  rambling  account  of  a 
singularly  uninteresting  tour  in  that  country ;  A  Disciple 
of  Walton  in  the  Land  of  the  Midnight  Dawn,  a  similar 
recital  of  a  few  weeks'  fishing  in  Norway.  The  Gentle 
Art  of  Book-Making  affected  to  codify  various  betting 
systems  and  reduce  what  is  usually  regarded  as  an  ap- 
peal to  chance  to  the  certainty  of  an  exact  science.  The 
work  at  present  on  the  stocks  was  to  be  called  The  Inves- 
tors' Vade-Mecum,  or  how  to  build  a  fortune  on  half  a 
crown. 

Guns,  fishing-rods  and  tackle,  riding-whips,  spurs, 
bits,  wading-boots,  nets,  antlers,  foxes'  brushes  and 
heads,  horseshoes,  plentifully  bestrewed  the  room,  amid 
a  chaos  of  retorts,  crucibles,  Leyden  jars,  cameras,  dry 
and  wet  plates,  and  other  photographic  apparatus,  jostled 
by  galvanic  piles  and  batteries,  hand-presses  and  stamp- 
ing-machines. An  easel  bearing  an  unfinished  impres- 
sionist landscape,  several  washy  water-colors  framed  and 
otherwise,  a  weighing-machine,  a  calculating-machine, 
foils,  single-sticks,  boxing-gloves,  dumb-bells  and  Indian 
clubs,  with  palettes,  paint  brushes  and  color  tubes,  were 
among  the  various  litter  of  this  untidy  room,  which  had 
not  been  painted  since  Gerald  was  born,  and  the  carpet 
of  which  had  forgotten  its  original  colors. 

At  a  leather-covered  table  piled  with  manuscripts, 
papers,  and  books  sat  Adeline,  pouting  and  fidgety,  with 
hollow  eyes  and  inky  fingers,  her  tangled  curls  falling 
over  her  cramped  right  hand  upon  the  manuscript  before 
her  and  a  dilapidated  dictionary  at  her  side.  She  looked 
wistfully  through  the  window  opposite  her  at  the  sway- 
ing pine-tops,  her  pen  suspended  in  her  hand,  while  her 
father,  whose  back  was  turned  to  her,  stared  dreamily 
into  the  fire,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  brain  pursuing 
a  thought,  or  a  phrase  wherewith  to  clothe  it.  A  de- 


THE   CHRISTMAS   TREE  89 

canter  containing  a  dark  liquid  and  a  liqueur  glass 
whence  he  had  just  taken  a  sip  stood  on  the  table  at  his 
elbow.  He  was  personally  conducting  poor  little  Ad- 
die  's  education  by  turning  her  into  a  small  white  slave  or 
amanuensis  in  the  service  of  the  Investor 's  Guide. 

"Not  generally  known,"  he  muttered. 

"How  many  r's  in  generly?"  asked  Addie,  hurriedly 
finding  her  place  on  the  page,  "and  has  throne  got  an  a 
in  it,  please  ? ' ' 

"Known,  you  stupid  child;  not  thrown.  Known, 
known,  known!"  he  shouted  in  crescendo;  "your  perver- 
sity and  ignorance  utterly  destroy  one's  ideas." 

"I'm  so  tired,"  whimpered  Addie,  diluting  her  ink 
with  tears, '  *  and  it 's  Christmas  Eve.  And  it 's  a  shame. ' ' 

"To  the  majority  of  the  investing  public,"  her  father 
confided  to  his  beard  and  the  fire. 

"And  there's  Richie  and  Kitty  outside,  beckoning," 
cried  Addie.  "Mayn't  I  go,  papa?" 

"You  may  go  straight  to  bed,  unless  you  choose  to 
pay  proper  attention  and  stop  your  chatter.  To  the  ma- 
jority of " 

' '  I  wish  I  'd  been  a  posthumous  child,  like  Eva  Sterne. 
Then  I  shouldn  't  have  been  shut  up  all  day  on  Christmas 
Eve,"  commented  Addie,  vindictively  digging  her  pen 
into  the  paper. 

' '  Do  you  know  what  a  posthumous  child  is,  Adeline  ? ' ' 
Belton  asked  with  sudden  seriousness.  "A  child  born 
after  its  father 's  death  ?  Eh  ?  Perhaps  you  wish  I  was 
dead?"  He  rose  and  walked  slowly  toward  her;  the 
child  cowered  and  shrank  like  a  frightened  animal,  her 
lips  pressed  together,  her  eyes  dilated.  ' '  Answer  me,  do 
you  wish  your  father  dead  ? "  he  added  sternly,  but  with- 
out violence. 

' '  N-n-no.  I  only  wish  I  'd  been  born  afterward,  when 
you  do  die,"  was  the  terrified  response. 

' '  She  wishes  she  was  fatherless, ' '  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, "fatherless,"  he  repeated  with  a  quivering  lip; 
' '  fatherless, ' '  he  added  brokenly,  shocked  to  find  that  the 


90  RICHARD   ROSNY 

hand  he  extended  to  stroke  her  head  made  her  shrink  and 
parry  with  her  raised  arm. 

' '  Undutif  ill,  unloving  child !  you  can  go  and  play  and 
look  forward  to  seeing  your  father  in  his  coffin,  when 
he  will  need  no  more  help  and  no  more  love.  Go  and 
play.  Leave  him  alone  with  his  aching  head  and  his 
tiring  work  now,  as  you  will  have  to  leave  him  in  his  cold, 
dark,  lonely  grave  then.  A  merry  Christmas  to  you, 
Adeline.  Go." 

He  drew  her  chair  from  the  table,  and,  taking  her 
by  the  arm,  raised  her  to  her  feet,  turning  and  pushing 
her  gently  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  whither  she 
walked  blindly,  half-dazed  and  half-relieved,  till  she 
reached  the  door  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  handle,  when 
she  turned,  looked  at  the  gaunt,  melancholy  figure  stand- 
ing solitary  on  the  hearth  in  the  fading  light,  and,  with 
a  sudden  cry,  flew  back  and  sprang  upon  him,  clasping 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Oh,  papa,  poor  papa,  I  do  love  you,  I  do,  I  do,"  she 
sobbed,  her  face  buried  in  his  breast.  "But  I  was  so 
dreadful  tired. ' ' 

A  spasm  contracted  the  man's  face  and  the  too- 
ready  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes  as  he  swayed  under 
the  weight  of  the  little  body  hurled  suddenly  upon  him. 
He  stroked  the  golden  head  in  silence  for  a  minute, 
then  raised  it  gently  and  freed  himself  from  the  cling- 
ing arms.  "Be  a  good  girl,  then,"  he  said,  looking 
wistfully  into  the  clear,  upraised  eyes  and  pushing  her 
gently  away.  "Go  and  play  now,  baggage;  go  and 

Play." 

Another  minute  and  through  the  window  he  saw  her 
spring  upon  Rosny,  who  was  surrounded  by  the  chil- 
dren, with  the  same  childish  abandonment,  and  then 
upon  Kathleen.  Then  she  was  on  the  top  of  one  of 
the  low  pillars  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  crying  to 
Richard  to  take  her  hands  and  swing  her  off  again  and 
again. 

The  old  story,  Belton  thought ;  Rosny  was  their  idol ; 


THE   CHRISTMAS   TREE  91 

he  could  do  anything  with  them ;  why  had  he  this  power 
and  this  love? 

Gerald,  standing  by  his  brother,  was  now  a  slight, 
graceful  lad,  already  as  high  as  Rosny  's  shoulder,  and  not 
unlike  Richard,  who  at  his  age  had  worn  his  first  uni- 
form. But  Gerald  had  nothing  of  Richard's  sturdiness 
and  strength  of  character.  "Gerald  is  more  like  me," 
his  father  thought.  The  children  began  some  game ;  Mrs. 
Belton  walked  up  and  down  with  Kathleen ;  their  father 
turned  back  to  his  fire  with  a  bitter  sense  of  loneliness 
and  neglect.  Why  did  his  children  fly  from  him  in  ter- 
ror and  aversion  ?  If  his  hand  was  somewhat  heavy  and 
overready,  Richard's  was  no  light  one.  If  he  found 
fault,  Richard  allowed  no  misconduct.  Conscience,  sud- 
denly stabbed  by  Adeline's  rebellious  desire  to  be  father- 
less, awoke  in  the  lonely  winter  gloaming,  and  said  things 
not  easily  silenced.  He  saw  himself  as  he  had  been  on 
that  other  winter  afternoon,  when  he  brought  Richard 
home  for  the  first  time  to  see  the  "surprise"  his  mother 
had  in  store  for  him.  Richard  had  never  shrunk  from 
him  as  his  own  did. 

He  groaned  miserably  as  he  realized  the  depth  to 
which  he  had  fallen  since  then  and  wondered  weakly  how 
it  had  come  about.  Not  that  he  had  ever  been  what  he 
termed  a  saint.  But  he  had  always  ' '  meant  well. ' ' 

The  fire  sank ;  shadows  gathered  heavily  in  the  great, 
unlovely  room ;  he  was  sitting,  bowed  and  limp,  his  head 
in  his  hands,  in  the  dark,  when  suddenly  there  broke 
upon  the  stillness  a  sweet  sound  of  fresh  voices  singing  in 
long-forgotten  strains, 

"  Hark!  the  herald  angels  sing 
Glory  to  the  new-born  King." 

He  started  up  from  his  gloomy  reverie,  staring  with 
wide,  frightened  eyes  into  the  shadows,  massed  darkly 
round  and  scarcely  lessened  by  a  smoldering  glow  from 
the  sunken  fire,  clutching  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  shud- 
dering. Were  they  spirit  voices  ringing  through  the 


92  RICHARD   ROSNY 

darkness,  or  some  such  weird  deceits  as  sometimes  clouded 
his  fancy  of  late? 

"  Peace  on  earth  and  mercy  mild, 
God  and  sinners  reconciled," 

the  joyous  voices  caroled  out  in  inspiriting  melody,  as  if 
from  some  passing  band  of  angels  singing  in  their  meas- 
ured flight  through  the  clouds.  Was  it  the  mockery  of 
demons  ?  How  could  God  be  reconciled  to  sinners  ?  He 
knew  too  well  to  what  depths  sinners  can  descend.  Great 
horror  shook  him  with  fear  of  loneliness  in  the  darkening 
room,  visible  by  its  one  sullen  glance  of  smoldering  fire ; 
he  feared  to  rise  and  face  what  might  be  lurking  in  those 
dreadful  shadows.  Cold  dew  stood  on  his  forehead,  his 
joints  loosened,  a  faint  cry  escaping  his  lips  startled 
yet  steadied  him,  while  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  inspiriting 
melody  carried  the  heart-easing  hymn  to  an  exultant 
close. 

Then  the  cloud  cleared  from  his  brain  with  the  sober 
conviction  that  the  strains  were  from  no  supernatural 
source,  but  only  the  familiar  Christmas  hymn  of  his  own 
childhood,  sung  by  his  own  children  in  his  own  house. 
With  this  sober  certainty  he  came  to  himself.  It  was 
Christmas  Eve ;  the  children  had  clamored  for  a  Christ- 
mas tree  "just  for  once";  he  had  consented  to  please 
Kitty  Musgrave;  Richard  had  dug  up  a  young  fir  and 
planted  it  in  a  tub  in  the  dining-room.  There  all  day  be- 
hind a  curtain  there  had  been  comings  and  goings  of 
elders  and  rigid  exclusion  of  children.  That  accounted 
for  Adeline 's  rebellion,  the  arrival  of  Richard  and  Kitty, 
and  the  general  excitement  and  festivity. 

There  was  reassurance  and  cozy  reality  in  the  vision 
of  the  warm  room,  the  decorated  tree,  twinkling  with 
tapers,  and  the  shining  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks  of  the 
singing  children,  in  pleasant  contrast  to  the  dark  solitude 
of  this  horror-haunted  chamber,  whence  the  young  ones 
always  fled  and  whither  even  his  wife  came  but  seldom. 

They  had  not  asked  him  to  their  tree,  he  thought  bit- 


THE   CHRISTMAS   TREE  93 

terly ;  but  why  should  he  be  shut  out  of  the  brightness  ? 
Striking  a  match  and  lighting  a  taper,  he  became  con- 
scious of  his  slovenly  undress.  Too  early  to  dress  for 
dinner  and  not  worth  while  to  dress  twice.  He  could  not 
go  in  as  he  was.  Shouts  of  more  mundane  happiness  had 
now  succeeded  the  hymns  and  bursts  of  laughter  came  at 
intervals. 

He  went  into  the  dimly  lighted  hall  and  listened, 
tempted  to  look  in  at  the  door,  but  shrinking  at  the 
thought  of  the  silence  and  dismay  the  sight  of  his  face 
would  cause.  Edith  had  turned  his  children  against  him. 
Once  he  had  loved  her.  Yes ;  even  as  late  as  the  day  when 
Richard  was  taken  to  Gerald's  cradle,  though  even  then 
her  fickle  and  selfish  heart  was  already  absorbed  in  the 
baby.  The  woman  was  as  jealous  as  she  was  exacting. 
She  was  a  curse  to  him.  He  took  an  overcoat  and  hat, 
and  passed  softly  out  to  the  gravel  sweep,  and  under  the 
moaning  pines,  more  weird  and  solemn  in  their  murmur- 
ing by  night  than  by  day.  A  sound  of  distant  bells  was 
on  the  wind;  lighted  windows  were  sparsely  dotted  in 
the  distance  among  trees.  Here  the  dining-room  win- 
dows cast  rods  of  light  through  curtain  chinks  upon  ever- 
greens and  gravel.  He  went  up  to  a  window,  whence  a 
wider  rod  of  radiance  fell,  and  looked  in  with  a  pang  of 
morbid  self-pity  at  the  warmth  and  brightness  in  which 
they  were  all  making  merry  unmindful  of  him,  while  he 
shivered  outside  in  the  dark.  A  fir-tree  reached  to  the 
ceiling,  twinkling  with  miniature  lights  and  gilded  fruits. 
Beneath  it  stood  Richard  holding  up  a  toy  at  full  stretch 
of  arm,  a  smile  on  his  firm,  full  lips,  his  eyes  glowing  on 
the  eager  youngsters  leaping  to  snatch  the  toy. 

Kathleen's  light  figure  leaned  against  the  chimney- 
piece,  a  little  stranger  girl  about  Adeline's  age  held  her 
hand  and  leaned  her  upraised  head  against  her;  Edith 
glided  among  the  children  with  those  perfect  motions 
that  are  better  than  beauty;  even  her  husband  admired 
her  and  wondered  at  the  childlike  pleasure  in  her  face. 
Rebellious  Adeline,  her  tangle  of  curls  smoothed  and  tied 
7 


94  RICHARD   ROSNY 

back,  held  the  youngest  child 's  hand ;  the  others  grouped 
with  her,  their  fresh  faces  looking  like  some  cherub  gar- 
land in  an  early  Italian  painting.  Beauty  had  been  dealt 
with  no  niggard  hand  to  those  seven  young  ones;  other 
children  present  were  far  less  gifted  with  it,  he  observed. 

The  servants  came  smiling  in  and  found  gifts  under 
the  tree ;  no  one  was  forgotten — except  the  shabby  figure 
standing  outside  in  the  dark.  Even  Kitty  had  over- 
looked him. 

It  was  cold;  he  turned  to  go  in,  dreading  the  phan- 
toms beginning  of  late  to  haunt  his  solitary  room.  He 
had  never  seen  his  children  so  happy  before,  and  happi- 
ness is  contagious.  He  went  to  the  dining-room  door  and 
then  stopped,  remembering  the  consternation  his  ap- 
pearance usually  evoked. 

Perhaps  he  was  a  little  severe  with  those  children ;  his 
nerves  were  not  equal  to  them;  they  were  such  an  un- 
ruly set,  thanks  to  their  mother.  They  goaded  him  be- 
yond endurance,  and  at  times  now  he  was  not  quite  mas- 
ter of  himself.  How  much  did  those  children  know? 
Gerald  must  surely  know.  He  sorely  needed  affection 
and  companionship ;  was  it  too  late  to  change  ?  He  must 
change,  if  he  was  to  live,  the  doctor  said.  But  he  wanted 
sympathy  and  comfort,  and  Edith  was  a  perpetual  irri- 
tation, a  human  gad-fly. 

He  walked  up  and  down,  as  he  so  often  did  at  night 
now,  under  the  moaning  pines,  looking  now  at  bars  of 
light  from  the  windows,  now  at  golden  dots  from  scat- 
tered homes  in  the  distance,  wishing  more  than  half  his 
life  undone.  If  Adeline  would  really  care  for  him! 
He  would  never  strike  her  again.  She  might  care  for 
him.  He  would  alter  his  habits — when  the  book  was  fin- 
ished. 

Presently  he  crept  back  to  his  specter-haunted  room 
and  the  terrible  consoler,  that  glittered  seductively  on  the 
table  in  the  light  of  the  replenished  fire.  Ah !  there  still 
remained  one  never-failing  source  of  peace  and  rest. 
With  a  shaking  hand  he  filled  the  glass  with  the  dark 


THE    CHRISTMAS    TREE  95 

draft  of  quietness,  drank  it  and  sank  into  his  chair 
with  a  voluptuous  sigh,  curtained  round  with  exquisite 
vision,  spellbound,  tranced  in  magic  stillness,  all  the 
persecuting  furies  stricken  dumb,  body  and  soul  folded 
in  a  soft,  sweet  rapture,  till  the  charm  was  broken  by  his 
wife's  unwelcome  voice,  softly  asking,  "Are  you  asleep, 
Horace?  Dinner  has  been  waiting  long." 

When  he  went  in,  an  untidy,  slippered  figure  in  a 
dressing-gown,  a  faint  scent  of  fir  and  burning  wax  was 
all  that  remained  of  the  festal  brightness ;  a  curtain  hid 
the  extinguished  tree,  holly  and  mistletoe  had  vanished. 
Edith  was  in  her  usual  evening  dress  and  wore  her  usual 
look  of  anxiety  and  querulous  suffering,  her  happy  smiles 
were  gone,  ten  more  years  weighed  upon  her  brow. 

"One  day,"  she  was  thinking,  "he  may  sleep  to  wake 
no  more." 


CHAPTER   IX 

GEEALD'S   APPEAL 

"How  do  you  find  time  for  all  this?"  Kathleen  asked, 
smiling  up  at  Richard  as  they  walked  briskly  away  from 
the  mill,  "with  only  these  few  days  ashore,  and  so  much 
to  distract " 

"And  the  temptation  to  dance  perpetual  attendance 
on  the  very  sweetest " 

' '  Is  this  conversation,  Mr.  Rosny  1  Must  I  be  driven 
to  converse  with  fieldfares  and  linnets,  or  will  you  be 
rational?" 

' '  Mavourneen,  how  can  I  ?  When  you  look  like  that 
you  drive  a  man 's  five  wits  to  the  four  winds. ' ' 

' '  Five  wits  to  four  winds !  One  and  a  quarter  apiece. 
Small  loss  to  the  owner,  I'm  thinking.  I  was  going  to 
say  something  nice  about  this  biscuit  factory  and  admire 
the  energy  that  organizes  and  controls  so  much,  while 
doing  so  many  other  things — such  as  talking  to  some 
poor,  silly  girl  not  worth  talking  sense  to " 

"Oh,  come,  Kitty." 

' '  I  have  come.  I  've  walked  all  the  way  to  that  bis- 
cuit-mill and  covered  myself  with  flour — and  glory — in 
the  eyes  of  the  workmen,  by  looking  at  little  wheels  and 
great  presses  and  huge  rollers,  and  trying  to  understand 
the  whizzing  and  whirling  and  stamping  and  kneading 
and  water-power  and  horse-power  and  cooperative  power 
and  pneumonia  power  and  hydrangea  power.  And  do 
you  know,  Richard,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
could  be  very  happy  in  that  sweet,  little  rose-covered  cot- 
tage near  the  mill  above  the  stream,  where  the  manager 


GERALD'S   APPEAL  97 

lives.  I  would  keep  fowls,  and  gather  primroses.  How 
dear  of  you  to  consume  your  own  smoke ! ' ' 

' '  Dearer  to  me  than  you  think,  Mavourneen.  It  costs 
us  a  hundred  a  year.  It's  my  fad  to  combine  industry 
with  beauty.  Ugliness  gives  my  mother  such  pain,  that 
I'm  bound  to.  She's  very  fond  of  this  little  hollow  by 
the  hanging  wood.  She  has  so  little  to  please  her." 

"She  has  you.  I  don't  pity  her  in  the  least.  And 
she 's  going  to  have  me. ' ' 

"I  hope  you  will  get  on  with  her,  Kitty,"  he  said 
with  sudden,  sad  seriousness ;  ' '  she 's  not  altogether  easy 
to  get  on  with;  her  troubles  have  worn  her  nerves  to 
nothing.  You  '11  make  allowances,  darling,  won 't  you  ? ' ' 

"Indeed  I  will,  dear  Richard." 

He  pressed  the  slender  hand  he  held  almost  to  pain. 
His  heart  throbbed  with  unutterable  happiness.  Gaiety 
he  had  known  and  reckless  delight  and  frequent  pleas- 
ure, but  not  this  deep  and  stable  and  uplifting  joy. 
Something  he  had  lost  with  childhood  was  given  back  to 
him  with  the  tender  love  and  sweet  companionship  of  this 
pure-hearted  girl.  The  glamour  of  early  idyllic  days  at 
Wimbury,  intensified  but  not  less  pure,  lay  upon  these 
sweet  days  of  first  love.  He  lived  in  an  exquisite  dream, 
that  was  but  a  dream  and  must  have  a  waking.  In  this 
wild  world  of  every-day  sorrow  two  enchanted  dreams 
visit  every  heart — the  dream  of  infancy  before  the  eyes 
are  opened,  and  the  dream  of  first  love,  when  they  are 
holden  by  potent  magic. 

Added  to  her  beauty  and  womanly  charm,  Kitty  had 
the  further  grace  of  being  able  and  willing  to  enter  into 
those  numerous  schemes  and  theories  he  had  begun  to 
make  and  carry  into  practise  already,  as  in  this  biscuit 
factory  in  which  he  had  sunk  his  patrimony,  ' '  The  Mer- 
stone  Biscuit  Factory,"  trading  under  the  manager's 
name  and  partly  cooperative.  The  ship-biscuits  were 
to  keep  fresh  and  crisp  through  long  voyages,  and  the 
factory  hands  were  to  have  every  opportunity  and  en- 
couragement to  buy  small  shares.  Richard  was  already 


98  RICHARD   ROSNY 

developing  the  commercial  instinct  and  managed  both  to 
make  the  factory  pay  a  small  dividend  and  his  biscuits 
keep  fresh.  Many  merchant  vessels  were  supplied  with 
Merstone  biscuits,  but  few  hands  had  as  yet  bought 
shares.  The  factory  was  Richard's  toy  and  delight  and 
the  cause  of  many  quite  bearable  gibes  and  sarcasms. 
' '  How  are  biscuits  to-day  ?  Flour  steady  ?  Patent  anti- 
weevils  ruling  firmer?  How  do  you  make  'em  keep? 
Powdered  bones  or  Keating 's  Insect  Powder?  Capital 
stuff,  Keating,  to  keep  off  weevils.  You  don't  mean  that 
you  tasted  the  things,  Kitty?  Well,  I  am —  No  harm 
in  Keating,  dear;  bones  are  nourishing.  And  since  you 
must  marry  a  baker,  why " 

' '  The  biscuit  is  very  nice, ' '  Kitty  always  maintained 
stoutly,  "ever  so  much  nicer  than  common  ship-biscuit. 
The  great  tins  they  are  packed  in  keep  them  fresh  and 
crisp." 

"Ah!  my  dear,  but  if  the  biscuits  are  in  tins,  it 
strikes  me  there  won 't  be  much  tin  in  the  biscuits. ' ' 

He  followed  Kitty  home  to  luncheon,  where  the  party 
included  three  of  her  brothers,  and  was  very  lively  and 
cheery.  They  arranged  to  go  altogether  in  an  omni- 
bus to  the  fancy-dress  ball  at  St.  Ann 's  that  night,  Rich- 
ard reluctantly  refusing  the  dinner  in  costume  that 
was  to  precede  it,  because  it  was  Adeline's  birthday 
as  well  as  his  last  night  ashore,  and  he  was  therefore 
due  at  the  Pines.  But  he  was  not  to  leave  till  the  after- 
noon; might  he  come  to  luncheon  to-morrow  and  say 
good-by  ? 

"And  talk  it  over,"  Kitty  added.  "Talking  it  over 
is  the  nicest  part  of  a  dance." 

"Except  getting  home  and  thanking  Heaven  it's 
over,"  her  father  said. 

There  was  no  getting  rid  of  Rosny  that  afternoon. 
The  men  went  their  ways,  but  he  lingered  over  the  draw- 
ing-room fire,  interrupting  Mrs.  Musgrave's  correspond- 
ence and  hindering  Kitty's  embroidery,  saying  he  must 
be  off,  getting  up  to  go,  and  then  coming  back  again. 


GERALD'S   APPEAL  99 

"The  last  day,"  he  said  plaintively  at  last.  "Play 
me  something  to  remember,  Mavourneen." 

So  Kitty  went  dutifully  to  the  piano  and  played  her 
favorite  bits  in  her  best  manner,  and  gradually  became 
so  inspired  and  emboldened  by  the  magnetism  of  her 
sympathetic  audience  and  the  stir  of  youth  and  hope  in 
her  heart,  that  she  dared  a  difficult  deed,  a  Sonata  she 
never  ventured  upon  except  when  alone.  Richard 
lounged  all  his  great  length  in  a  chair  facing  her,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  his  eyes  full  of  dream,  his 
spirits  calmed  yet  moved,  rapt  away  to  a  realm  of  en- 
tranced delight.  Moonlight  slept  upon  the  vast  calm  of 
a  windless  ocean,  a  faerie  sea,  in  the  opening  Adagio,  and 
a  soft  melody,  sad  and  sweet  and  full  of  inextinguishable 
longing,  glided  over  the  still  waves.  Far  away,  from 
time  to  time,  the  boom  of  breakers  plunging  on  rocky 
shores  was  heard,  and  the  distant  thunder  of  seas  pent 
up  and  struggling  in  dark  and  deep  caverns  gave  a  hint 
of  storm.  But  the  tender  melody  glided  on  over  the  un- 
ruffled sea  in  the  moonbeams  and  died  far  away  upon  the 
quiet  deep.  Then  came  a  fairy  dance  of  joyous  waves, 
tumbling  and  tossing  in  the  moonlight,  with  the  occa- 
sional deep  thunder  of  baffled  desire  and  the  play  of  light 
and  whisper  of  waking  winds;  again  the  light,  bright 
tripping  of  the  fairy  dance  came  in  a  tender  close.  This 
finished,  Kitty  paused  and  looked  into  Richard's  charmed 
face  and  dream-filled  eyes,  when  a  fire  thrilled  her  gentle 
pulses  and  flushed  her  cheek;  she  turned  the  page  and 
attacked  the  Presto  Agitato  with  sudden  ardor.  Her 
light  fingers  flew,  as  true  as  swift;  her  eyes  glittered,  a 
spirit  not  her  own  was  in  her  hands,  a  strange,  unknown 
spirit  of  fire  and  passion  and  agony  and  rapture  and 
yearning  unutterable,  and  she  played  as  never  before  or 
after,  truly  and  unerringly  to  the  splendid  close. 

Great  breakers  rose  up  out  of  the  heart  of  the  deep 
and  rolled  and  thundered  and  plunged  tumultuously  in 
the  silver  moonbeams,  in  exultation  and  hope  and  despair. 
The  tossing  manes  of  wild  sea-horses  flashed  snow-white 


100  RICHARD   ROSNY 

above  dark  ridges,  the  rioting  steeds  leaped  and  plunged 
with  dull  and  hollow  and  long-drawn  roar  upon  rock  and 
reef  and  iron  shore;  innumerable  voices  shouted  and 
sang  in  exultant  chorus  and  threatened  in  hoarse  thun- 
der, and  muttered  and  moaned  in  vain,  unquenchable  de- 
sire. Great  storm  blasts  drew  deep  furrows  along  the 
dark  and  heaving  waste;  mad  winds  tore  mighty  seas 
out  of  the  roaring  ridges,  caught  them  up  and  dashed 
them  down,  one  upon  another,  in  quivering  rage;  they 
took  up  little  ships  laden  with  half  a  thousand  souls,  like 
walnut  shells,  and  crushed  them  to  atoms  and  warred 
wildly  together  and  fled  far  away  in  rumbling  fury  and 
were  still.  Moonbeams  shone  calmly  over  all  the  tumult, 
they  silvered  the  tumbling  wave-crests  and  danced  in 
golden  luster  upon  the  quieting  waters;  the  vast  sea 
stretched  out  a  million  arms  in  vain  longing,  and  leaped 
up  in  hope  and  sank  back  in  tumult  and  pain ;  then  the 
moonlight  trembled  in  a  long,  golden  path  upon  its  heav- 
ing breast  and  it  thundered  itself  into  peace,  with  many 
a  dying  murmur  and  echoing  roar. 

Kitty's  mother  looked  on  in  astonishment,  her  pen 
suspended  in  her  hand.  When  Kathleen  raised  her 
hands  from  the  last  chord,  she  was  pale  and  trembling; 
she  looked  at  Richard  and  saw  strange,  happy  tears  in 
his  eyes  and  a  great  light  in  his  face. 

' '  I  shall  never  forget  it, ' '  he  said  presently,  ' '  never. ' ' 

She  said  nothing,  but  shut  the  piano  and  went  back 
to  her  embroidery  in  a  sort  of  dream,  followed  and  ca- 
ressed by  Richard 's  eyes,  and  wondering  vaguely  what  it 
all  meant. 

Still  Richard  lingered,  silent,  spellbound,  and  happy, 
while  Mrs.  Musgrave's  industrious  pen  traveled  on  and 
Kitty's  needle  twinkled  in  and  out  of  her  silks  and  her 
cheek  flushed  and  paled  with  a  trouble  that  seemed  with- 
out cause. 

"Well,  I  won't  worry  you  any  more.  I  really  will 
take  myself  off  now,"  he  said  at  last,  for  the  seventh 
time;  "Mrs.  Musgrave,  if  I  don't  turn  up  at  the  first  to- 


GERALD'S   APPEAL  101 

night,  you'll  keep  those  two  dances  for  me,  won't  you? 
And,  Kitty,  you  won't  forget  how  many  you've  prom- 
ised Sir  Walter.  So  till  to-night,  ladies,  till  sweet  to- 
night." 

Even  then  he  turned  and  paused  at  the  door.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  could  not  look  long  enough  at  the  warm, 
homelike  room,  or  print  deep  enough  on  his  memory  the 
picture  of  the  handsome  mother  looking  up  with  a  kind 
smile,  and  the  gentle  beauty  and  speaking  glance  of  the 
daughter  in  a  deep  chair  by  the  fire,  her  silken  skeins  in 
her  hands,  her  head  lifted  and  turned  so  as  to  show  the 
delicate  curves  of  her  throat,  her  soft  cheek  flushed,  of 
the  low  winter  sun  shedding  glamour  of  changing  light  on 
carpet  and  wall,  where  a  Madonna  della  Sedia  glowed 
softly,  on  the  green  folds  of  Kitty's  gown,  the  shining 
gold  plaits  of  her  hair,  and  just  fluttering  over  her  cheek 
and  chin,  and  blazing  out  in  the  jewel  he  had  placed  on 
her  hand. 

"Your  Richard  has  a  sweet  smile,  Kitty,"  her  mother 
said,  when  the  door  at  last  closed  upon  the  manly  figure 
and  strong  face.  ' '  Quite  a  home  boy.  But  light-hearted 
and  far  too  light-minded." 

"Oh,  mother!     Richard  light-minded?     Richard!" 

He  could  not  bear  to  lose  the  picture  or  leave  the  at- 
mosphere of  that  enchanted  presence.  Yet  he  had  no 
foreboding  that  he  would  look  upon  it  no  more.  The 
sun  sank,  the  red  light  died  from  the  topmost  pine  with 
the  closing  of  the  door.  In  the  cold  grayness  he  stormed 
down  to  the  gate,  along  the  road,  and  under  the  somber 
shadow  of  the  pines,  whose  sealike  surge  to-night  was  a 
deep  lament  for  some  irreparable  loss. 

When  the  gate  fell  to  behind  him  with  a  melancholy 
clang,  thirteen  years  vanished ;  he  was  a  boy  again,  with 
Belton  striding  before  him  in  the  winter  dusk  to  the  new 
home,  standing  so  grim  and  gray  under  the  cold  evening 
sky. 

"Well,  old  boy,  how  do  you  like  your  surprise?"  he 
seemed  to  hear  again  in  the  cheery  voice. 


102  RICHARD   ROSNY 

To-night  the  house  looked  grimmer  than  ever,  dark 
against  a  lucid  sky  that  was  pink  to  the  zenith,  in 
which  stars  were  slowly  kindling.  Scarcely  a  glow 
showed  from  any  window,  no  wild  troop  of  children 
rioted  about  the  grounds.  No  one  was  about,  not  even 
a  dog's  bark  broke  the  stony  silence.  He  walked, 
without  sound,  on  the  edge  of  the  road  where  the 
fir-needles  lay  thick,  till  the  drive  bent  sharply,  and 
he  came  upon  a  space  lighted  by  the  western  sky. 
There,  between  red  pine-trunks,  stood  Gerald,  his  head 
bent  down,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  dejectedly  kick- 
ing a  drift  of  dead  leaves  about  the  heaped  pine- 
needles. 

He  raised  his  head  at  Richard 's  ' '  What  cheer,  mate  1 ' ' 
and  showed  a  miserable,  tear-swollen  face,  over  which  he 
hastily  drew  the  back  of  his  hand,  at  the  same  time  pull- 
ing his  cap  over  his  eyes. 

"You  seem  to  be  making  pretty  heavy  weather  to- 
night, young  un,"  Dick  said,  seizing  him  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  looking  into  his  quivering  face.  "What  the 
dickens  are  you  piping  your  eye  about  ? ' ' 

"I  ain't,"  was  the  defiant  answer,  followed  by  a  sob 
and  a  cry  of, ' '  Can 't  you  stop  it,  Dick,  can 't  you  ?  Don 't 
let  him — let  him  h-hit  her  again." 

"Bring  her  head  round,  young  un.  Don't  run  be- 
fore the  wind  like  this,"  Richard  growled,  with  a  couple 
of  vigorous  shakes.  "Heave  to,  old  chap.  Which  is  it 
now?  Molly  or  Addie?  No  girl  over  ten  should  be 
smacked." 

"Oh!  you  don't  know — I  didn't  know  half.  She — 
she — she  couldn't  dine  at  Merstone  yesterday,  because 
she — she  couldn't  wear — a  dinner-gown " 

Richard  turned  white  and  threw  the  boy  from  him 
with  a  suppressed  cry.  "You  can't — can't  mean —  He 
doesn't  dare — "  he  gasped. 

"  He 's  always  at  it.  That 's  what  frightened  the  baby 
— Jane  said  it  was  seeing  him.  If  I  saw  it,  I'd  kill  him, 
Dick;  I'd  fly  at  his  throat,  I'd  kill  him,  if  I  could.  I 


GERALD'S   APPEAL  103 

would,  I  would,  I  would!"  he  cried  in  hysterical  cres- 
cendo. 

Richard  stood  with  muscles  tense,  eyes  blazing,  lips 
drawn  tight  and  fierce,  his  back  was  to  the  light,  his 
face  to  Gerald,  whose  sobs  mixed  with  the  long  shudder 
of  the  moaning  pines.  Suddenly  he  took  Gerald  by  the 
collar  and  shook  him.  ' '  It 's  a  lie ! "  he  cried.  ' '  How  do 
you  know?" 

"Go  in  and  see.  Ask  Adeline  and  Archie.  Ask  the 
servants.  What  the  fellows  say  at  school  about  him  is 

true " 

"They  say  that,  do  they?  And  what  do  you  say  to 
them?" 

' '  I  say  nothing  and  lam — lam  into  them. ' ' 
"Right,"  said  Richard,  still  holding  him  by  the  col- 
lar and  walking  him  up  and  down  under  the  pines. 
"Always  lam  into  them.     Don't  let  them  wrangle  over 
it.     Hit  out  straight  and  have  done  with  it." 

"I'd  like  to  lam  into  him !     And  I  will,  if  I  see ' ' 

"Now,  Gerald,"  said  Richard,  still  walking  him  up 
and  down,  ' '  mind  what  I  tell  you.  You  must  never  see 
anything.  It  would  only  make  it  a  thousand  times 
worse.  No  boy  or  man  ever  strikes  a  father.  Be  quiet 
and  listen.  If  it  comes  to  the  worst,  stand  before  her. 
It  mayn't  happen  again.  Not  if  I  can  help  it.  Where 
are  the  others  ? ' ' 

"All  hiding,  except  Addie — she's  locked  up.  Can't 
Tie  be  locked  up,  Richard?  Don't  they  lock  them  up  for 
morphia  ? ' ' 

"Look  here,  old  boy,"  Richard  said,  drying  Gerald's 
face  with  his  handkerchief .  "You  can't  help  this.  So 
don't  think  any  more  about  it.  What's  the  good?  And 
whatever  you  do,  don't  irritate  him.  Besides,  he's  really 
ill.  It's  past  five  and  I  must  go  in.  Just  cut  over  to  the 
mill,  as  hard  as  you  can  lick,  and  ask  Merwood  for  my 
bicycle  lamp,  will  you,  and  cut  back  again.  There's  a 
good  cake  there  that  you  can  have,  tell  him.  One,  two, 
and  off  you  go. ' ' 


104  RICHARD    ROSNY 

Off  he  went,  head  forward  and  down,  arms  pressed 
to  his  side,  at  a  swinging  trot,  while  Richard,  his  steps 
ringing  firm  on  the  frozen  gravel,  went  into  the  house, 
whistling,  with  a  fierce  light  in  his  eyes  and  burning  fire 
at  his  heart. 

The  shadows  were  thick  in  the  drawing-room,  kept 
purposely  thick,  he  thought,  though  the  fire  was  roused 
to  a  blaze  to  welcome  him,  and  his  mother  spoke  with  a 
forced  cheerfulness  that  cut  him  to  the  heart. 

''I  wish  you  could  have  been  at  Merstone  last  night, 
Muff,"  he  said  presently,  in  an  uneven  voice.  "The 
children  sat  up  and  helped  in  the  tableaux.  Kathleen 
was  Oberon,  Nancy  the  charmingest  Titania ;  clever  little 
thing.  How  did  you  contrive  to  get  such  a  swollen  face  ? 
Sitting  in  drafts?  Foolish  Muff.  Have  it  out,  Muf- 
fie.  I'll  take  you  to  the  dentist  to-morrow.  Patience 
isn  't  always  a  virtue,  don 't  you  know  ?  It  can  be  carried 
too  far." 

"Yes;  so  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  replied  sadly. 
"Not  about  the  dentist,  dear.  But — we  can  not,  we  can 
not  go  on  like  this.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  He  has 
been  like  a  madman.  All  but  Gerald  are  in  disgrace; 
the  maids  have  given  notice.  So  many  have  left  for  the 
same  reason.  They  say  they  can  not  stand  his  treatment 
of — of  the  children.  Richie,  dear,  I  wish  I  had  a  pleas- 
anter  tale  to  tell  you — but,  indeed — "  Her  full  heart 
overflowed  and  a  sad  story  was  unfolded,  in  the  despera- 
tion of  one  driven  to  bay,  to  a  listener  whose  heart  was  on 
fire  with  pain  and  indignation,  and  his  imagination 
quickened  by  what  Gerald  had  just  told  him.  But  the 
true  history  of  the  swollen  face  was  not  given,  nor  was 
the  bruised  arm  alluded  to. 

"Of  course  it  can't  go  on,"  he  said  impatiently,  at 
the  end.  "You  must  leave  him.  Have  you  threatened 
to  go?" 

"How  can  I  desert  the  poor  children?"  she  sighed. 
"I  am  some  restraint.  He  would  be  only  too  glad  to  be 
rid  of  me.  "What  set  him  off  this  morning  was  your  giv- 


GERALD'S   APPEAL  105 

ing  Adeline  a  present  that  pleased  her.  He  had,  of 
course,  given  her  nothing.  She  was  angry  and  imper- 
tinent in  return,  so  was  condemned  to  her  room  for  the 
day.  He  is  always  dangerous  in  the  morning  now.  For- 
tunately he  seldom  comes  down  to  breakfast.  Thorne 
says  he  can  do  nothing.  He  tells  him  plainly  that  he  is 
killing  himself.  But  I  am  afraid  of  something  worse 
before  he  does  that,  Richard,  and  the  doctor  can  not  deny 
it.  This  excessive  jealousy  is  a  symptom." 

"I  see  no  help  except  in  leaving  him,  unless  he  be- 
comes much  worse  in  the  way  you  fear. ' '  And  with  this 
cold  comfort  she  had  to  be  content,  the  door  opening  at 
this  juncture  to  admit  Gerald,  flushed  and  calmed  by  his 
run. 

They  dined  very  drearily  that  night;  the  master  of 
the  house  looked,  as  his  stepson  said,  like  a  thunder- 
storm in  a  shabby  dressing-gown,  and  was  as  conversa- 
tional as  an  ice-floe  on  your  weather  quarter. 

''Where  did  you  get  that  cut  on  your  wrist?"  he 
asked  Dick,  after  a  long  and  gloomy  silence. 

' '  Oh !  in  a  scrap  up  the  country,  that  time.  I  cut  the 
poor  nigger  who  did  it  in  halves.  Don't  squirm,  Muff; 
it  didn  't  hurt  him,  and  everybody  has  to  die.  You  can 't 
fight  with  cowslip  balls.  Why,  the  poor  beggars  went 
down  before  our  fire  in  ranks  like  reaped  corn." 

"All  fighting  men  are  brutes,"  was  Belton's  civil  and 
apposite  comment  before  relapsing  into  morose  silence. 

Gerald  sat  silent  and  wretched  opposite  his  brother, 
who  was  too  preoccupied  to  comfort  him  by  so  much  as  a 
friendly  kick.  All  lights  but  that  immediately  over  the 
table  were  lowered  because  of  Mrs.  Belton's  eyes.  But 
in  spite  of  the  dim  light  and  the  black  lace  in  which  she 
was  muffled  from  wrist  to  chin,  Richard  observed  such 
marks  on  her  face  as  no  cold  or  toothache  could  produce. 
Adeline,  coming  in  to  dessert  after  her  day's  solitary 
confinement,  went  straight  to  Richard  and  pressed  her 
face  silently  to  his  shoulder  till  her  father  called  her 
roughly  away,  when  Archie  tried  to  comfort  her  by 


106  RICHARD   ROSNY 

making  faces  at  her  whenever  Mr.  Belton  was  not 
looking. 

' '  I  wish, ' '  Gerald  said  in  the  hall  afterward,  ' '  I  wish 
he  was  dead ! ' ' 

"Don't  say  that,  Gerald,"  Richard  quickly  retorted. 
"You  would  be  wretched  if  he  were  to  die  to-night — as 
he  very  likely  may, ' '  he  added,  going  out  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE     FANCY     BALL 

Two  minutes  longer  in  that  house  and  Richard  must 
have  suffocated  with  fury  or  given  way  to  some  irrepa- 
rable violence.  Once  outside,  with  the  door  shut,  the 
frosty  air  playing  upon  his  face  and  the  pines  moaning 
their  subdued,  immemorial  sorrow,  a  great  weight  was 
lifted  from  his  laboring  heart ;  the  wind 's  low  rhythm  in 
the  trees  was  like  a  friend's  voice  calling  and  calming 
him;  he  turned,  with  a  sound  between  a  groan  and  a 
shout,  into  the  small  clearing  where  Gerald  had  told  his 
tale  at  sunset,  leaned  his  bicycle  against  a  tree  and  threw 
himself  face  downward  on  the  ground,  clutching  the 
heaped  pine-needles  in  his  hands. 

Beaten  and  bruised !  His  mother !  his  own  mother ! 
Even  Gerald  could  not  stand  by  and  see  it,  the  man 's  own 
son.  Something  must  be  done ;  the  children  must  be  left 
no  longer  in  the  shadow  and  terror  of  that  miserable 
home.  Godfrey  Belton  must  interfere.  Yet  what  could 
even  he  do?  The  doctor  could  but  warn  and  had  done 
so.  His  mother  could  not  leave  the  children,  and  she 
had  no  power  to  take  them  away.  He  could  see  no  way 
out  of  this  tangfe  of  misery — except  one.  The  man  was, 
indeed,  killing  himself,  but  only  by  inches;  he  might  yet 
pull  up.  If  he  would  but  double  the  black  potion  that 
darkened  those  helpless  lives;  if,  in  some  hour  of  the 
despair  such  drafts  engender,  he  were  to  end  all  of  his 
own  will.  That  was  the  only  solution  of  this  bitter 
problem. 

A  sudden  wind-gust  rising  out  of  the  deep  heart  of 

107 


108  RICHARD   ROSNY 

night  and  rushing  with  a  shudder  and  roar  through  the 
black  tree-tops,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  the  violence  of  his 
thought,  roused  him. 

"Well,  old  boy,  and  how  do  you  like  your  surprise?" 
he  seemed  to  hear  again  through  the  pine  murmurs,  in 
the  old  genial  voice,  like  a  reproach. 

His  passion  had  so  exhausted  him  that  everything 
looked  crimson,  and  his  trembling  hands  could  hardly 
light  the  lamp  of  the  bicycle  he  wheeled  out  into  the 
graveled  drive,  where  it  east  a  red  radiance  upon  the 
drifted  leaves  and  fir-needles  and  the  pallid  road  itself. 
The  sky  was  gray,  with  hardly  a  star  looking  through  the 
thinning  cloud- weft  drawn  like  a  velarium  across  it ;  but 
above  the  pines  on  the  hill  glowed  lights  that  made  his 
heart  leap  and  soften.  For  Kitty's  window  was  there. 
To  forget  Kathleen?  Yet  all  the  misery  and  fury  had 
put  her  completely  out  of  his  mind.  All  the  light-hearted 
gaiety  came  back  with  the  friendly  gleam  from  the 
house  that  held  all  his  happiness  and  hope ;  the  ball,  the 
bizarre  masquerading,  the  bouquet  promised  to  Kath- 
leen, gay  trivialities,  ghastly  by  the  lurid  light  of  the 
scene  he  had  just  left.  The  bouquet  had  been  forgotten 
and  time  was  flying;  springing  on  to  the  high  wheel,  he 
flew  down  the  hill  and  across  the  marsh-land  toward  the 
white  lights  of  Sandycombe,  a  crimson  spot  in  the  dark- 
ness marking  his  rapid  trail  between  leafless  hedges  and 
across  open  waste. 

Kitty  Musgrave  knew  that  crimson  spot  well  and 
often  watched  for  it  with  a  quickening  pulse  from  her 
aerie  on  the  hill ;  Richard  often  came  to  Ingrestone  in  this 
way,  and,  if  he  sometimes  passed,  it  was  not  without  her 
knowledge. 

She  was  already  watching  for  the  red  star  to  flash 
from  under  the  trees  upon  the  road,  ready  dressed  in 
her  fantastic  medieval  costume,  and  not  only  watching, 
but  waiting  for  the  welcome  red  light  that  was  to  bring 
the  white  roses.  Ah !  there  flashed  the  sudden  red  glow, 
but  it  dulled  down  to  a  minute  dot  and  passed  slowly  by, 


THE   FANCY   BALL  109 

once  more  and  once  again;  only  a  cigar  or  pipe  passing 
along  the  road. 

But  Richard  was  already  late  when  he  started;  he 
had  not  only  to  fetch  the  roses  from  Sandycombe,  but 
also  to  turn  two  miles  out  of  his  way  to  go  to  the  mill, 
where  the  manager  was  waiting  to  finish  some  business 
matter  with  him;  so  Kitty's  patience,  of  which  she  had 
no  larger  stock  than  most  girls,  came  to  an  end  just  as 
the  roll  of  a  gong  told  that  time  had  also  come  to  an  end, 
and  she  slipped  down  the  stairs  in  a  shimmer  of  white 
and  gold  to  find  a  varied  company  going  through  the 
hall,  with  laughter  and  ejaculations  of  surprise,  admi- 
ration, and  frank,  fraternal  criticism. 

The  Adrian  Rosnys,  who  were  in  powder  and  patches, 
had  taken  Ingrestone  on  their  way  to  St.  Ann 's  in  charge 
of  a  Queen  of  Scots  niece,  bringing  little  Nancy  with 
them  to  see  the  dresses  and  stay  for  a  few  nights.  The 
party,  which  included  a  Franciscan  monk  and  a  Black 
Brunswicker,  would  fill  the  omnibus  twice.  It  was  felt 
that  Rosny  should  have  been  one  of  them;  Kitty  began 
to  be  cross,  she  felt  herself  slighted  by  his  absence.  She 
expressed  her  sense  of  the  frivolity  and  futility  of  fancy 
dress  with  marked  emphasis,  and  was  sure  that  her  hair, 
which  was  in  two  long  jeweled  plaits,  would  come  un- 
done with  the  first  dance;  it  worried  her  to  think  that 
some  of  her  pearls  were  borrowed  and  would  certainly 
be  lost;  it  was  small  consolation  that  the  Rajah's  blazing 
jewels  were  hired  paste;  she  frankly  pronounced  the 
Pierrot  hideous,  besides  prophesying  the  descent  of 
"Prince  Charlie's"  tartans  as  soon  as  he  danced. 

"Send  Dick  to  the  right  about,"  one  brother  coun- 
seled. "Mortal  man  can't  dance  attendance  forever 
and  ever,"  was  the  opinion  of  another,  whereupon  Kitty 
averred  with  her  sweetest  smile  that  she  was  perfectly 
content  with  everything  and  was  really  better  without 
flowers  in  her  cloth  of  gold  and  white  satin. 

"Ah!  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Rosny  said,  when  they  were 
leaving  the  dining-room,  "you  will  be  a  happy  girl  if 
8 


110  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Dick  is  half  as  good  to  his  wife  as  he  is  to  his  mother. 
Your  dress  is  lovely.  It  goes  so  well  with  the  Black 
Brunswicker.  Your  cousin?" 

"My  cousin,  Ronald  Musgrave,  Dick's  friend." 

But  the  children,  gathered  in  the  hall  to  see  the 
maskers  passing,  were  half  frightened  by  the  grim  em- 
blems on  the  Black  Hussar.  The  four  eldest  from  the 
Pines  were  there ;  they  had  stolen  out  by  a  back  door  and 
winding  path  lest  they  should  meet  their  father  in  his 
evening  wanderings.  "Our  Kitty  is  the  best  of  all," 
was  their  proud  verdict,  as  they  came  crowding  round 
her,  full  of  questions  and  comments. 

"Have  you  seen  your  brother's  bicycle  go  by?"  she 
asked,  and  went  to  a  window  with  them,  drew  the  cur- 
tains, and  looked  out. 

"But  he  must  have  passed  long  ago,"  Gerald  said. 
"It's  a  quarter  past  nine." 

"No,  he  hasn't,"  cried  Archie.  ''There  he  goes," 
and  Kitty  caught  the  well-known  flash  of  the  red  lamp 
down  among  the  trees  shadowing  the  road.  Her  face 
changed  and  grew  joyous;  she  smiled  brightly;  she  was 
certain  this  time.  But  the  smile  died  quickly,  when 
the  red  flash  vanished  in  the  darkness.  A  few  seconds, 
and  it  gleamed  out  from  the  pine-stems  again,  but  in  the 
wrong  direction. 

' '  Why,  he 's  gone  into  our  gate ! ' '  exclaimed  Adeline ; 
"he's  gone  wrong!" 

' '  It  must  be  a  mistake, ' '  Kitty  said,  with  a  blank  look, 
when  the  red  light  vanished  once  more  in  the  darkness. 
She  turned  to  Gerald,  who  was  standing  by,  looking 
dreamily  into  the  wall  of  night  outside  and  absently  re- 
peating to  himself,  ' '  A  quarter  past  nine,  a  quarter  past 
nine. ' ' 

"Treasure  trove,"  said  a  deep  voice  on  her  other 
hand,  and,  looking  quickly  round,  she  found  the  tall 
Black  Brunswicker  standing  there  with  a  sheathed  bou- 
quet of  roses  in  his  hand.  "No  reasonable  offer  refused, 
Cousin  Kitty.  Where  did  I  get  them?  Since  you  are 


THE   FANCY   BALL  111 

so  rude  as  to  ask,  I  confess  that  they  were  lying  on  that 
identical  table,  visible  to  the  naked  eye.  How  they  got 
there  I  know  no  more  than  King  George  knew  how  the 
apples  got  into  the  dumplings.  I  might  conjecture  that 
my  slandered  messmate,  whose  fist  is  decipherable  on 
this  card,  caused  them  to  be  placed  there.'* 

"Why,  of  course,"  she  replied,  "how  very  stupid  I 
am !  He  must  have  passed  long  ago  and  left  them.  And 
that  red  lamp —  Simmons  is  so  negligent — leaving 
things  about,  instead  of  bringing  them  in." 

"And  so  the  belle  Iseult  was  well  content  and  her 
kindred  with  her,  and  so  they  lived  right  joyously  and 
made  great  cheer  the  one  with  the  other, ' '  said  the  Black 
Brunswicker,  slowly  advancing  upon  Molly,  who  re- 
treated before  him,  fascinated  by  the  horror  of  his  death 's 
head  and  bones,  with  saucer  eyes  and  open  mouth,  while 
Gerald,  lost  in  some  vague  dream,  repeated  again  and 
again,  "A  quarter  past  nine." 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  otherwise  Dick  Rosny,  had  prom- 
ised to  arrive  at  the  Assembly  Rooms  early  and  be  in  at- 
tendance in  the  vicinity  of  the  cloak-room,  where  Kitty 
naturally  but  vainly  expected  to  find  him.  After  a  few 
seekings  they  went  into  the  ballroom  without  him,  the 
Queen  of  Scots  with  the  Pierrot,  the  Monk  and  the  Rajah 
affably  chatting  together,  and  the  Black  Brunswicker  fol- 
lowing the  scarlet  and  gold  Colonel  Musgrave,  who  rep- 
resented his  military  rank  a  hundred  years  ago,  and  his 
hooped  and  powdered  lady,  with  the  fair  Iseult,  who 
glanced  somewhat  wistfully  over  the  party-colored,  in- 
congruous crowd  in  search  of  a  plumed  cavalier  in  a 
short  velvet  cloak. 

"What  a  menagerie,  Kitty!"  the  Brunswicker  said. 
"Look  at  Falstaff,  do  you  recognize  him?  Well,  I  tell 
no  tales,  but  he 's  no  stranger  to  either  of  us.  That  Span- 
ish girl  will  be  the  death  of  me.  She  has  nine  bouncing 
children,  my  dear,  and  the  airs  and  graces  of  a  kitten. 
Why,  there's  our  old  friend  the  Devil,  the  good  old  ortho- 
dox chap  with  horns  and  tail,  grinning  like  a  Cheshire 


112  RICHARD   ROSNY 

cat.  Mephistopheles  is  leering  affectionately  at  him.  How 
are  you,  Mephisto?  Haven't  seen  Gretchen  to-night; 
minding  her  wheel  at  home,  no  doubt.  What  in  thunder 
is  the  thing  over  there  on  the  beef -eater's  arm  meant  for, 
Crazy  Jane?  Turns  the  scale  at  eleven  stone.  How 
that  Vivandiere  grins !  She  fancies  herself  hugely,  which 
is  lucky,  for  nobody  else  will." 

"How  do  you  know  that,  Ronald?  I  think  her 
charming  and  so  good-tempered.  And  why  in  the  world 
should  she  come  if  she  didn't  fancy  herself?  I  liked 
myself  immensely  this  evening  in  the  glass " 

"Ah!  but  we  are  not  all  belle  Iseults " 

"Or  Black  Brunswickers,  I  hope.  If  I  thought  half 
here  had  the  Brunswick  tongue,  I  'd  run  away  and  hide. ' ' 

"Don't  think  it  for  a  moment,  Kitten;  we  can't  af- 
ford to  lose  the  light  of  the  room.  Jove!  did  you  see 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  tumbling  over  his  sword  ?  Bluff  King 
Hal  looks  as  if  something  had  disagreed  with  him — an- 
swers to  the  name  of  Smith,  my  dear.  All  the  rag-tag 
and  bobtail  of  the  county  seems  to  have  been  raked  to- 
gether." 

"That  is  how  we  came  to  have  cards,"  said  fair 
Iseult,  sweetly.  "For  pity's  sake  go  and  fill  your  pro- 
gram while  you  can." 

"Bid  me  to  ask  and  I  will  ask  Thy  Brunswicker  to  be. 
Number  two,  Kit?" 

"Filled.  Besides  you're  down  for  six  and  fourteen. 
Stand  to  your  guns  and  don't  bother  me.  No  tea,  thanks. 
I'm  going  to  sit  with  mother." 

Iseult 's  eyes  were  clouded  with  ill-timed  moisture; 
the  first  notes  of  the  Polonaise  were  sounding ;  strangely 
assorted  couples,  flower-girls  and  monks,  Queen  Eliza- 
beths and  British  officers  in  latest  uniform,  nuns  and 
Pierrots,  Kings  and  peasant-girls,  Tudor  ruffs  and 
Georgian  powder,  Louis  Quinze  ladies  and  medieval 
knights,  white-kilted  Albanians  and  Fair  Rosamonds, 
Venetian  fishermen  and  ladies  in  Greek  chitons,  were  tak- 
ing their  places,  and  many  goodly  Cavaliers  with  plume 


THE   FANCY   BALL  113 

and  spur  came  and  went  in  the  gay  and  glittering  show ; 
but  the  tall  stature,  short  velvet  cloak,  and  broad  ruff  of 
Sir  Walter  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  It  seemed  mon- 
strous that  one  of  the  most  graceful  and  natural  imper- 
sonations in  the  room  should  sit  out  that  first,  stately 
show  dance  now  beginning  like  a  splendid  serpent  slowly 
and  melodiously  to  unwind  its  coiled  length. 

She  looked  her  assumed  character,  her  mother 
thought,  and  Kathleen  felt  it  so  strongly  that  she  began 
to  wonder  if  Rosny  were  playing  up  to  Iseult  of  Brittany 
by  this  strange  and  unexpected  dereliction  of  duty.  But 
the  joke  was  too  crude,  it  could  not  be  that.  There  must 
be  something  wrong. 

Gerald  said  that  his  brother  left  the  Pines  soon  after 
eight  on  his  cycle.  To  Sandycombe  and  back  with  the 
roses  should  have  taken  half  an  hour  at  the  longest ;  an- 
other quarter  of  an  hour  might  have  been  spent  in  riding 
to  St.  Ann's.  He  could  surely  dress  in  half  an  hour  at 
the  outside;  yet  it  was  already  half  past  ten.  Gerald, 
she  had  observed,  was  not  himself  to-night ;  he  had  been 
crying ;  he  was  preoccupied,  dreamy,  and  sad.  A  boy  of 
thirteen  does  not  cry  for  a  trifle.  Foolish  Iseult,  what 
had  the  boy 's  tears  to  do  with  Richard  ?  Only  that  some- 
thing must  be  wrong,  and  very  wrong,  to  keep  him  so 
long  on  this  last  night.  To-morrow  at  this  time  he  would 
be  at  sea  and  in  a  few  weeks  he  might  be  at  the  ends  of 
the  earth ;  for  there  was  talk  of  his  going  on  the  Pacific 
Station;  he  would  not  lightly  waste  a  moment  of  this 
precious  night.  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark,  had  a 
pensive  and  monosyllabic  partner  in  the  next  dance; 
an  Algerian  pirate  fared  even  worse  in  the  next  after 
that. 

"I  should  like  to  sit  down,"  said  the  fair  Iseult. 
"This  cloth  of  gold  is  too  stiff  and  heavy  to  dance  in. 
And  my  wimple  will  keep  catching  in  people's  garments. 
It  pulls  my  head  off." 

"II  faut  souffrir  pour  etre  belle,"  the  pirate  admon- 
ished. "And  without  humbug,  Miss  Musgrave,  yours  is 


114  RICHARD   ROSNY 

the  prettiest  and  most  suitable  dress  in  the  room.  Every- 
body is  raving  about  it." 

"Let  them  rave.  But  they  came  to  dance.  They 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  dressed  in  a  gilt  bonbon  box 
and  wear  an  extinguisher  with  a  veil  tied  to  it  on  the 
back  of  their  heads,"  replied  Iseult,  so  sadly  that  the 
pirate  laughed  and  a  Folly  jingling  by  in  cap  and 
bells  lowered  his  bauble  in  homage  to  her  and  bade 
her  cheer  herself  with  the  prospect  of  the  next  dance 
with  him. 

"And  I  said  of  Folly,  it  is  vain,"  answered  Iseult, 
rising  and  placing  her  hand  on  the  pirate's  arm,  and  sud- 
denly smiling  to  find  herself  face  to  face  with  a  tall  and 
splendid  cavalier,  cloaked  and  plumed,  his  hand  on  his 
rapier,  his  eyes  shining  with  singular  luster  above  the 
bristling  mustachios  that  changed  the  character  of  his 
face  so  that  only  Kitty  and  the  Black  Hussar  recognized 
him. 

"Ah!  Sir  Walter,"  said  Iseult;  "have  you  been  to 
find  El  Dorado,  or  were  you  mewed  in  the  Tower  all  this 
long  while?" 

"  I  've  come  to  find  La  Dorada  at  last, ' '  he  replied  in 
a  constrained,  almost  affected,  manner.  "Looking  for 
Iseult  without  a  dictionary  of  dates,  I  stumbled  into  the 
wrong  century,  I  suppose,  and  that  threw  me  behind 
time." 

"You  would  naturally  look  in  the  middle  age  for 
Iseult,  Sir  Walter,  and  so  miss  Kitty  Musgrave,  who  is 
glad  to  say  she  is  still  young. ' ' 

"And  by  no  means  plain  to  see,"  added  the  pirate, 
claiming  one  more  turn  before  his  dance  was  done. 

"But  where  in  the  world  were  you?"  Kitty  asked 
later,  when  she  had  taken  her  turn  with  Folly  and  was  at 
liberty  to  accompany  the  grave  Sir  Walter  to  a  quiet 
nook  in  the  hall,  where  they  sat  by  a  bank  of  blossomed 
plants,  a  little  withdrawn  from  the  stream  of  prom- 
enaders  moving  to  and  fro  before  them  with  flash  of 
jewels  and  rustle  of  shimmering  silks,  like  some  unreal 


THE   FANCY   BALL  115 

masque  in  a  dream,  that  may  change  and  dissolve  at  any 
minute. 

"I  like  you  in  your  finery,  Kitty,"  was  the  irrelevant 
reply;  "the  gold  and  the  white  answer  to  your  hair  and 
your  complexion.  The  pearls  are  like  you,  dearest, 
precious  and  pure.  I  like  the  long  gold  plaits  twined 
with  pearls.  May  I  touch  one  ?  How  long  and  soft  and 
bright!  Ah!  Kitty,  darling,  how  came  you  to  put  up 
with  such  a  rough  specimen  as  I?  And  you  so  young. 
You  are  only  eighteen,  Kathleen,  are  you?  Perhaps  it 
was  only  because  I  came  so  early  that  you  took  me — or  out 
of  pity." 

' '  Pray,  does  your  worship  expect  payment  in  kind  of 
all  those  fine  speeches?  Am  I  to  say  how  lovely  your 
mustachios  are?  And  your  fine  feathers  and  smart 
oloak — all  ready  for  Queen  Bess  to  walk  upon.  I  never 
saw  you  wear  a  brooch  before ;  that  is  a  beauty  in  your 
cloak,  not  much  larger  than  a  saucer.  And  what  a  mag- 
nificent gold  chain!  But,  Richard — I  thought  you  al- 
ways wore  your  father's  ring?  I  never  saw  you  without 
the  signet- ring  before.  You  wore  it  this  afternoon." 

He  sighed  heavily  and  looked  at  the  hand  on  which 
he  had  been  used  to  wear  the  ring,  and  which  he  had  un- 
gloved to  stroke  the  plait  of  hair  with. 

"Was  it  this  afternoon?"  he  replied.  "I  don't  re- 
member. Yes ;  I  always  wore  it.  I  prized  it — though  I 
don 't  care  for  such  things.  He  always  wore  it  and  sealed 
with  it.  It  had  the  Rosny  crest.  I — I  've  lost  it,  Kitty. ' ' 

"I  am  sorry.  What  a  pity!  What  shall  you  do? 
Have  it  cried?  Put  out  little  bills?" 

' '  I  think  not.  Why  do  we  talk  of  such  things  ?  Shall 
you  mind  much  if  I  get  an  appointment  on  a  foreign  sta- 
tion? I  could  claim  a  home  appointment;  but  it's  not 
the  way  to  promotion.  Your  father  utterly  refuses  to  let 
us  marry  before  two  years.  And  it  would  be  much  bet- 
ter to  have  a  home  appointment  in  the  first  years  of  mar- 
riage than  now.  It  would  be  too  hard  luck  to  have  to 
leave  a  wife  behind,  hard  enough  to  have  to  leave  a  sweet- 


116  RICHARD   ROSNY 

heart.  But  I  can  trust  you,  Mavourneen,  and  there  are 
always  letters  to  keep  a  fellow  alive  and  pictures  of  you 
to  see  over  again  in  night  watches — in  the  mind's  eye, 
darling.  This  gold-tressed  Iseult,  with  her  pearls  and 
her  smile,  will  be  painted  on  the  sea-waves  in  the  gloom. 
And,  if  you  wake  in  the  night,  what  will  you  see  in  the 
dark,  Kitty?" 

' '  I  shall  see  the  officer  of  the  watch  on  deck,  far,  far 
away  on  the  dark  sea — sometimes.  Or  I  shall  see  my 
Cwur  de  Lion  coming  home  again;  and  oh!  how  I  shall 
wish  the  days  and  nights  before  that  gone.  Richie,  how 
shall  we  ever  drag  through  two  long  years  1  How  wicked 
and  cruel  of  you  to  be  a  sailor!" 

' '  Darling !     You  are  too  good  to  me ! " 

' ' Of  course  I  am.  But  you  needn't  crush  my  hand  to 
death  in  that  great  strong  paw  of  yours."  The  hand 
was  suddenly  unclasped,  while  a  spasm  of  horror  whit- 
ened the  face  and  dilated  the  eyes  looking  into  Iseult 's. 
"What  is  it,  Richard?"  she  asked  anxiously.  "You  are 
so  strange  to-night.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  Why 
were  you  so  late  this  evening  ?  You  are  not  ill,  dear  ? ' ' 

He  turned  away  his  face,  trembling  and  shaken  by  a 
heavy  sigh.  Kathleen  looked  anxiously  at  him  and  he  at 
the  stream  of  promenaders,  sparkling,  shimmering,  and 
rustling  by  in  their  gay  fantastic  dresses,  with  multitudi- 
nous hum  of  low- voiced  talk  and  occasional  ring  of  light- 
hearted  laughter,  all  emphasized  or  subdued  by  the  rise 
and  fall  of  waltz  music  borne  fitfully  from  the  ballroom. 

Kitty 's  heart  misgave  her.  The  love-burdened  strains 
of  the  band,  the  recurrent  clash  of  cymbal  and  rarer  light 
roll  of  drum,  when  the  music  wave  rose  to  a  climax,  were 
more  than  she  could  bear  in  this  wild  dream  of  color  and 
character,  of  mirth  and  movement.  The  strangely  cos- 
tumed figures  gathered  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  and  of 
time  had  a  weird  and  confusing  effect ;  they  overpowered 
her  imagination,  she  felt  astray,  her  personality  lost  in 
that  of  the  lady  of  old  romance  whose  dress  she  wore.  This 
was  not  Richard  sitting  by  her  side,  but  some  splendid 


THE   FANCY   BALL  117 

sinister  vision  in  velvet  and  silk,  his  jeweled  rapier  at  his 
side,  wearing  Richard's  features  and  using  Eichard's 
voice. 

"111?"  he  said  presently,  turning  back  to  her  again 
with  a  smile  that  belied  the  strange  look  in  his  eyes ;  ' '  I 
am  never  ill,  dearest.  What  singular  notions  sometimes 
stray  into  my  sweetheart 's  golden  head.  Was  it  so  very 
wicked  of  me  to  miss  our  dance?  Well,  I  suffered  for 
it.  I  was  far  the  worst  off,  you  may  be  sure.  I  'm  afraid 
I  didn't  take  the  disappointment  like  an  angel,  Kitty. 
The  fact  is  I  came  to  grief,  I — I  had  a  spill ;  it  knocked 
all  the  sense  out  of  me  for  a  time.  That  made  me  late. 
That 'sail.  Hurt?  Not  a  bit.  Oh !  I  picked  myself  up 
and  walked  most  of  the  way.  It  wouldn  't  be  worth  men- 
tioning if  it  hadn't  made  me  lose  my  dance.  Couldn't 
you  scratch  some  other  name  on  the  card  to  make  up  ? " 

She  promised  with  a  joyless  smile.  A  strange  terror 
invaded  her  heart ;  never,  never  would  she  go  to  a  fancy- 
dress  ball  again;  she  had  never  been  drawn  by  such 
vanities,  so  hindering,  she  feared,  to  a  Christian  course. 
They  must,  as  good  people  said,  be  soul-destroying. 
There  was  some  evil  magic  in  them,  fascinating  and  re- 
pulsive and  fiendishly  sweet;  they  made  Richard  so  un- 
like himself;  there  was  something  in  his  face  that  made 
her  shrink  from  him,  something  in  his  laugh  that  gave 
her  a  horror  of  him;  horror  of  Richard! 

"Ah!"  said  a  deep,  sweet  voice  close  by.  "What  a 
haven  of  rest !  What  an  Eden !  I  play  the  role  of  ser- 
pent, I  fear.  Or  am  I  the  angel  who  drove  the  happy 
pair  out  ?  I  'm  but  too  conscious  of  being  de  trop.  * ' 

The  tall  figure  of  the  Black  Hussar  towered  above  the 
promenaders  in  front  of  them ;  Iseult's  eyes  met  his  smil- 
ing glance  with  something  like  relief;  she  remembered, 
with  a  pleasure  that  surprised  her,  that  the  next  dance 
was  his,  and,  with  a  slight  gesture,  indicated  a  seat  on 
the  lounge  at  her  side,  of  which  he  immediately  availed 
himself. 

' '  I  'm  afraid  you  must  be  very  vain, ' '  she  said,  gaily ; 


118  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"you  see  everybody  looking  at  you,  and  you  hear  them 
saying,  '  Who  is  he  ?  "Who  is  that  distinguished-looking 
officer  in  the  black  uniform?'  So  much  admiration  has 
turned  your  head  till  you  think  yourself  an  angel — black 
or  white." 

"Do  they  admire  me?  Do  you  admire  my  beauty, 
Rosny  ?  "Well,  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king,  after  all.  How 
beastly  mean  to  come  in  simple  uniform,  like  Johnstone 
and  Stokes.  All  very  well  for  the  seniors.  But  it  isn't 
playing  the  game.  All  should  make  fools  of  themselves 
or  none.  Those  uniform  chaps  will  exult  over  us  and 
think  they  have  us  on  toast  to-morrow. ' ' 

"Vanity,"  Kitty  said.  "They  know  that  nothing 
beats  a  naval  uniform,  after  all.  Do  make  Richard  be 
photographed  in  his,  Ronald.  Do  you  know,  I've  never 
been  to  a  fancy-dress  dance  before.  It 's  like  a  beautiful 
dream  to  see  the  people  passing. ' ' 

"It's  like  the  world,  gaudy,  made-up,  pretending  to 
be  what  it  is  not,  selfish,  stupid,  and  vain, ' '  moralized  the 
Hussar.  "And  this  quiet,  flowery  nook  is  a  sort  of 
Island  of  the  Blest  or  Earthly  Paradise,  in  which  Beauty 
rests  apart  from  the  stream  of  passing  life  with  Love. 
Then  comes  Duty,  all  in  black,  with  his  death 's  head  and 
bones,  and  says  very  sternly,  'This  is  my  dance.'  So 
she  sorrowfully  and  reluctantly  forsakes  Love  for  Duty, ' ' 
rising  and  offering  his  arm,  which  Iseult,  with  a  blush 
and  a  sigh  and  a  backward  glance  to  Richard,  accepted 
just  as  the  second  phrase  of  the  dance-music  swelled  out 
with  clash  of  cymbals  and  full  concert  of  all  instruments. 

Rosny  looked  with  an  absent  gaze  upon  the  vanishing 
figures  of  his  future  wife  and  his  most  intimate  friend ; 
then,  suddenly  remembering  that  he  was  engaged  for 
the  dance,  went  to  look  for  his  partner,  who  had  not 
waited  for  him,  so  that  he  had  ample  leisure  to  watch 
Iseult,  graceful  and  sweet  in  her  floating  whiteness  and 
shining  tresses,  and  set  off  by  the  Black  Hussar,  stately 
and  stern  in  his  somber,  martial  garb.  Then  his  mood 
changed  suddenly;  he  became  full  of  life  and  prodigal 


THE   FANCY   BALL  119 

of  quips  and  laughter,  with  eyes  overbright  and  flushed 
cheeks.  He  kept  Kitty  laughing  and  merry  through  all 
subsequent  dances  and  sittings  out  with  her,  was  gay  and 
delightful  to  other  partners,  and  somewhat  wild  in  his 
talk  with  men. 

' '  What  was  the  matter  with  Rosny  to-night  ? ' '  Colonel 
Musgrave  asked  his  wife,  when  the  two  were  thankfully 
alone  at  their  own  hearth  again. 

"Nothing,  dear.  What  did  you  notice  wrong?  He 
was  in  exceptional  spirits. ' ' 

' '  Very  exceptional.  I  hope  I  may  be  mistaken.  But 
I  didn't  like  the  look  of  him  at  all.  I'm  glad  I  was  firm 
about  the  marriage  not  taking  place  yet.  I  never  before 
suspected  him  of  wine.  But  he's  young  and  accidents 
will  happen.  And,  after  all,  he  is  not  Belton's  son." 


CHAPTER   XI 

UNDER     THE     PINES 

AN  early  breakfast  at  his  hotel,  a  plunge  in  the  win- 
ter sea,  and  a  sharp  bicycle  run  through  the  frost-curdled 
country  lanes  to  Merstone,  before  the  household  there 
was  fully  awake,  on  the  morning  after  the  ball,  ought  to 
have  freshened  and  restored  one  less  used  to  turn  night 
into  day  than  Rosny.  But  when,  after  half  an  hour's 
delay,  his  uncle  came  down  into  the  breakfast-room  to 
see  him  sitting  by  the  fire,  with  a  newspaper  that  he  was 
not  reading  in  his  hand,  he  was  surprised  to  find  him 
heavy-eyed,  haggard,  and  altogether  out  of  sorts. 

' '  Why,  bless  me,  Dick,  a  youngster  like  you  .ought  to 
be  able  to  dance  all  night  and  turn  up  as  fresh  as  paint 
in  the  morning,"  he  said,  going  round  the  table  and 
peeping  under  covers  to  see  what  was  to  be  had.  ' '  Make 
a  good  breakfast,  lad ;  that  will  pull  you  up.  You  will  be 
sharp-set  after  your  ride  this  bracing  morning.  Break- 
fasted at  St.  Ann's?  Well  done.  But  you've  earned 
another  by  this  time.  Try  this  grilled  fowl.  At  least 
a  cup  of  coffee,  then.  I  don't  feel  very  kindly  toward 
breakfast  myself  this  morning.  Late  hours  and  late  sup^ 
pers — one  must  eat  something  if  one  has  to  drag  young- 
sters about  all  night  at  these  tomfooleries — play  the 
dickens  with  the  digestion.  Very  good  show,  though, 
very  pleasant  fooling.  Surely  all  the  officers  of  the 
Agamemnon  were  there?" 

"We  mustered  pretty  strong,  sir." 

"As  for  my  future  niece,  she  was  prettier  and  more 
charming  than  ever.  Everybody  was  talking  about  her 
• — and  the  Black  Brunswicker.  You  seem  a  cup  too  low, 
120 


UNDER   THE   PINES  121 

Dickon.  I  hope  there  was  no  lover 's  quarrel  last  night  ? 
Swallow  your  pride  and  make  it  up  if  there  was,  for  your 
pretty  Kathleen  is  quite  as  good  as  she  looks." 

"And  better — if  possible,  Uncle  Adrian.  But  it's  to 
be  a  two  years '  engagement  and  to-day 's  Black  Monday. ' ' 

"Come;  the  Agamemnon  isn't  far  off.  You'll  be 
turning  up  again  in  a  couple  of  weeks.  I'm  afraid 
there's  trouble  at  the  Pines,  Dick." 

' '  There  is,  indeed, ' '  Richard  replied.  ' '  I  heard  some- 
thing yesterday.  I  can't  get  over  it." 

"I'm  beginning  to  think  with  you  that  there  should 
be  a  separation, ' '  Adrian  said.  ' '  There  are  grounds  for 
one.  Why  not  go  at  once  to  Godfrey  Belton  and  induce 
him  to  urge  her  to  take  legal  steps  for  a  judicial  separa- 
tion with  custody  of  children1?" 

' '  Too  late, ' '  Richard  replied  in  a  strange  voice. 

"Too  late?     How  so?" 

"  I  go  aboard  to-day.  And  I  must  be  off  to  say  good- 
by  at  both  houses.  You  will  say  good-by  to  my  aunt  for 
me.  She  will  not  be  down  yet,  I  suppose.  Can  I  do 
anything  for  anybody?  Here's  a  letter  for  Nancy,  shall 
I  take  it?" 

"Aye,  do,  Dickie;  the  little  wench  likes  her  letters. 
Good-by.  Cheer  up,  lad.  You  are  going  to  marry  a 
girl  worth  her  weight  in  gold,  remember.  Think  over  the 
separation. ' ' 

"  I  'm  not  likely  to  forget  that, '  *  Richard  replied,  turn- 
ing before  stepping  on  his  cycle  and  smiling  with  sad 
eyes  at  his  uncle,  who  stood  on  the  steps  to  see  him  off 
and  watched  while  he  flashed  through  the  open  gate  and 
along  the  highway  till  a  distant  bend  hid  him  from  sight. 

"Can  you  wonder  at  his  sadness,"  Mrs.  Rosny  said 
later,  "after  what  the  children  told  Nancy?  Poor 
Dick!" 

More  than  the  usual  heart-sickness  oppressed  Richard 
when  he  jumped  off  his  high  wheel  to  open  the  gate  at  the 
Pines  and  walked  with  a  dragging  step  up  to  the  door, 
looking  at  the  familiar  gray  house  with  a  fearful  ques- 


122  RICHARD   ROSNY 

tioning  in  his  eyes,  as  if  some  heavy  disaster  might  have 
befallen  it  since  last  night. 

Yet  it  seemed  less  grim  than  usual,  partly  lit  by 
bright  winter  sunshine,  which  drew  glittering  sparkles 
from  frosted  pine-boughs  and  cut  off  sharp  squares  of 
vivid  green  from  the  whitened  lawn.  The  song  of  the 
pine-tops  was  softened  to  a  dulcet  murmur,  lulling  and 
sweet,  and  pierced  now  and  then  by  a  robin's  warble; 
there  was  warmth  in  the  rich  browns  and  grays  of  bare 
branches  feathering  in  sunlight,  and  the  deeper  greens 
of  sunlit  laurels  and  hollies ;  smoke  curled  light  and  tran- 
quil against  a  cloudless  sky;  voices  of  laughing  children 
came  on  the  still,  sweet  air;  Archie  and  Molly  flew  out 
from  the  far  corner  of  the  house,  rosy  and  riotous ;  both 
brought  up  at  sight  of  him  and  followed  him  indoors  with 
dancing  steps. 

"  Mother's  in  the  dining-room  counting  out  her  money, 
Addie's  in  the  pantry  stealing  bread  and  honey, 
Gerald  he  is  up-stairs  tying  up  his  flies, 
Cook  is  in  the  kitchen  making  us  mince-pies," 

the  cheery  little  imps  chanted  in  answer  to  his  inquiry  of 
where  they  all  were,  and  going  into  the  dining-room  he 
found  poor  Mrs.  Belton  actually  engaged  in  the  unsatis- 
factory occupation  of  reckoning  up  the  household  bills 
and  wondering  how  on  earth  they  were  to  be  paid. 

"You  good  boy,  to  come  so  early,"  was  her  cheerful 
salutation.  "Well,  dear,  and  how  did  the  ball  go  off? 
The  Ingrestone  House  party  were  superb  from  all  ac- 
counts. I  must  get  Kitty  to  come  down  and  dress  up  for 
me  presently.  We  are  going  to  console  each  other  over  a 
cup  of  tea  this  afternoon  when  you  are  gone. ' ' 

She  still  wore  a  light  band  of  lace  across  the  eye  and 
face,  yet  she  looked  years  younger  than  on  the  previous 
night,  her  voice  had  a  joyous  ring  such  as  rarely  survives 
youth.  Richard  wondered,  as  he  often  did,  at  his  moth- 
er's mercurial  temperament,  and  pondered  on  the  re- 
serves of  vitality  and  joy  in  life  she  must  possess,  and 


UNDER  THE  PINES  123 

which  would  enable  her  in  better  circumstances  to  see 
many  years  of  happiness  and  enjoyment.  Handing  her 
to  a  place  by  the  fire  with  her  back  to  the  light,  he  took  a 
chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth,  facing  the  win- 
dow, through  which  he  looked  anxiously  from  time  to 
time,  while  she  chatted  lightly  and  pleasantly  in  the  gay, 
half -mocking  strain  that  came  so  rarely  now  and  seemed 
to  her  son  like  an  echo  of  childhood.  In  this  mood  she 
sometimes  let  herself  go  with  a  wild  exuberance  that 
jarred  upon  him,  and  seemed  more  consonant  with  the 
mad  merriment  of  youth  than  with  any  mirth  permissible 
to  years  of  discretion. 

To-day  it  produced  a  curious  mixture  of  irritation  and 
tenderness  in  him.  Irritation  that  she  could  rattle  on 
so  light-heartedly,  with  yesterday's  wretchedness  so 
fresh  in  remembrance  and  those  marks  still  darkening  her 
face ;  a  tender  pity  for  one  who  snatched  so  eagerly  at  a 
moment's  sunbeam,  a  moment's  healing  for  get  fulness. 
Without  that  power  of  forgetting,  her  terrible  life  must 
have  destroyed  her.  Yet  the  very  faculty  that  irritated 
had  a  perverse  fascination  for  him ;  she  seemed  so  young 
and  pretty  and  irresponsible  in  these  gay  moods. 

"How  is  Mr.  Belton?"  he  asked  presently,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  pale  blue  sky,  against  which  rooks  were 
slowly  sailing  with  wings  flashing  in  sunlight. 

"Need  you  ask?"  she  replied  with  a  reckless  laugh. 
"We  are  all  happy  and  contented  this  morning.  He  is 
still  asleep." 

"Nobody  has  seen  him  since  dinner  last  night,"  Ger- 
ald added.  ' '  He  sleeps  well  at  last. ' ' 

Richard  put  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if  the  sun- 
light was  too  strong,  and  fetched  a  deep  breath;  while 
Adeline  absently  quoted  from  her  last  poetry-lesson, 
"After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well." 

"Surely,"  Richard  remonstrated,  "that  is  too  long  a 
sleep.  Have  you  not  really  seen  him  to-day,  mother? 
Where  is  he?" 

Addie  's  quotation  beat  on  like  a  knell  in  his  brain ;  he 


124  RICHARD    ROSNY 

thought  to  hear  the  footsteps  of  fate  on  the  sunny  gravel 
outside. 

"Not  since  last  night,"  his  mother  corroborated,  add- 
ing that  she  had  paid  her  accustomed  visits  to  the  study 
many  times,  asking  through  the  opened  door  if  her  hus- 
band wanted  anything  and  listening  to  hear  if  all  were 
well  before  leaving  him.  "We  dare  not  interrupt  these 
long  sleeps. ' '  she  said.  ' '  It  upsets  him  so  terribly. ' ' 

"I  think,"  said  Richard  with  an  effort,  "considering 
all  things — I  think,  some  one  should  watch  him  during 
these  prolonged  sleeps.  It  is  close  upon  noon  now  and 
he  seems  to  have  slept  since  early  last  night. ' '  He  spoke 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  window,  toward  which  the 
footsteps  approached  with  a  curious,  hurried  stealth- 
iness. 

"Dear  Richie,  you  are  weird  this  morning;  you  give 
one  the  creeps, ' '  his  mother  replied.  ' '  Why  do  you  put 
such  horrors  into  one's  head?  I'll  go  to  the  study,  if 
only  to  pacify  you,  if  we  see  nothing  of  him  in  ten  min- 
utes' time." 

Richard  scarcely  heard  her,  his  eyes  being  fixed  on 
the  figure  that  passed  the  window  and  rang  the  door- 
bell with  a  sharp  decision  they  all  recognized. 

'  *  Colonel  Musgrave, ' '  Archie  announced.  ' '  I  wish  he 
always  wore  his  uniform.  He  did  look  so  ripping  last 
night.  He  let  me  draw  his  sword.  I  shall  go  into  the 
army. ' ' 

' '  So  shall  I, ' '  shouted  Harry,  and  Molly  cried  because 
the  misfortune  of  sex  debarred  her  from  both  services. 

"How  are  you,  Mrs.  Belton?"  said  the  colonel, 
dragged  reluctantly  into  the  room  by  the  children.  "I 
— I  didn't  mean  to  invade  you  at  this  time  of  day;  I  was 
wanting  a  word  in  private  with  Dick,  that's  all." 

"What  is  wrong?"  Rosny  asked,  when  they  were  out- 
side in  the  sunshine. 

' '  When  was  Belton  last  seen  1  Has  he  been  missed  1 
There's  bad  news  of  him,  Richard." 

"He  is  said  to  have  been  sleeping  in  the  study  since 


UNDER   THE   PINES  125 

early  last  night.  My  mother  is  quite  happy  about  him," 
Richard  replied  with  a  singing  in  his  ears. 

"I  have  just  found  him,"  Colonel  Musgrave  said, 
"dead." 

"Dead?" 

"You'd  better  prepare  your  mother.  He  must  have 
fallen  over  the  edge  of  the  gravel-pit  last  night;  the 
clothes  are  covered  with  frost.  I've  sent  for  a  constable. 
I'll  have  him  brought  in  while  you  look  after  your 
mother. ' ' 

"Stop,"  cried  Richard,  clutching  his  arm.  "Do 
you—  Was  he—  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"What  can  one  think?  What  was  to  be  expected? 
A  slip  in  the  dark — in  his  condition — is  no  joke.  You 
are  shocked,  Richard;  pull  yourself  together.  We  all 
die.  After  all,  it  is  a  happy  release.  Tell  your  mother 
it  was  an  accident." 

"I  can't  tell  her.  I  can't  face  her.  How  could  I?" 
cried  Richard  incoherently,  his  eyes  burning  like  coals. 

"You  must  tell  her  at  once.  Don't  play  the  fool, 
Dick,  go  in,"  he  remonstrated,  pushing  him  away  and 
hurrying  back  to  the  spot  Richard  knew  so  well. 

When  he  was  gone  Richard  fell  against  the  door- 
jamb  with  a  groan  and  threw  up  his  arms.  ' '  I  can 't  do 
it,  I  can't,"  he  muttered,  something  rising  in  his  throat 
and  strangling  him.  He  fought  it  off,  with  waving  arms 
and  choking  breath,  passed  a  handkerchief  over  his  face, 
and  went  in. 

"Mother,"  he  called  with  soft  urgency,  "mother!" 

"Oh,  Richard!"  she  replied,  coming  quickly  from  the 
direction  of  the  study  with  wild  looks,  "he  is  not  there. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  I  ought  not  to  have  left  him. ' ' 

"Come  up-stairs, "  he  said  gently.  "Don't  be 
frightened,  Muffle.  Gerald,"  he  added,  seeing  the  boy 
listening,  "you  and  Adeline  are  to  take  the  others  up  to 
the  nursery  at  once  and  keep  them  there  till  I  come. 
Look  sharp." 

"Oh,  Richard,  Richard!"  said  his  mother,  when  the 
9 


126  RICHARD    ROSNY 

children  were  gone,  "something  is  wrong;  something  has 
happened;  and  you  knew  it." 

In  her  agitation  she  had  pushed  off  the  lace  bandage ; 
the  darkened  eye  and  discolored  cheek  showed  clearly  in 
the  full  light ;  wild  exultation  thrilled  him  at  the  thought 
that  all  that  bondage  of  wretchedness  was  over  and  her 
chains  broken  forever. 

"Something  has  happened,  dear,"  he  replied  very 
gently.  ' '  Colonel  Musgrave  has  just  told  me.  He  came 
for  that.  Mr.  Belton  went  out  last  night  after  dinner, 
as  he  so  often  does.  It  was  a  dark  night " 

Her  terror-stricken  face  was  suddenly  traversed  by 
the  lightning  of  a  dreadful  certainty.  There  was  a  sound 
of  heavy  feet  on  the  gravel  outside.  She  flew  to  the  door 
with  a  cry  and  saw  in  the  bright  sunshine  four  laborers 
followed  by  a  policeman,  and  slowly  carrying  a  hurdle 
with  something  heavy  and  still,  covered  by  a  rug,  upon  it. 
Clearly  marked  on  the  blue  distance  beyond,  she  saw  a 
flight  of  pigeons  flash  by  with  clattering  wings. 

"Come  back,  mother,  come  back!"  cried  Richard, 
drawing  her  back.  ' '  Come  away ! "  he  added,  tightening 
his  hold.  But  she  tore  herself  from  his  arms  with  a 
great  cry,  that  seemed  to  divide  the  daylight  and  pierce 
to  the  very  sun,  and  flung  herself  full  length  by  the 
corpse  the  men  had  set  down  in  a  silence  through  which 
that  cry  seemed  to  ring,  and  which  Richard  remembered 
as  long  as  he  lived. 

' '  Yes, ' '  the  doctor  said  later  on,  ' '  I  quite  expected  it. 
I  have  often  warned  him.  It  could  not  have  been  pre- 
vented. Of  course,  it  might  not  have  happened  for 
years.  You  never  can  tell.  Mrs.  Belton  knew.  That  is 
to  say,  she  had  been  told." 

' '  A  natural  cause  ? ' '  Rosny  asked. 

"So  there  is  every  reason  to  suppose.  There  was 
valvular  disease  of  the  heart  and  other  things.  But  I  am 
afraid  there  must  be  an  inquest — under  the  circum- 
stances. ' ' 

"If  it  is  really  necessary,"  Richard  conceded.     "But 


UNDER   THE   PINES  127 

isn't  it  rather  a  pity?  It  will  distress  my  mother.  And 
it  can  do  him  no  good. ' ' 

"No,  poor  man;  we  can  do  nothing  for  him.  The 
same  might  be  said  however  he  came  by  his  death.  And, 
honestly,  I  can  not  be  quite  sure  beyond  all  doubt.  The 
ground  has  not  yet  been  examined  thoroughly.  These 
formalities  are  not  as  painful  as  they  seem,  and  you  may 
rely  upon  me  to  do  all  I  can  to  make  them  as  little  painful 
as  possible.  Mrs.  Belton  need  know  next  to  nothing.  It 
will  be  just  a  matter  of  questioning  those  who  last  saw 
him  alive,  those  who  found  him,  and  myself  as  to  his 
usual  health.  It ' s  simply  a  police  regulation,  and  a  very 
necessary  one.  I  shall  miss  poor  Mr.  Belton,  though " 

Kitty  Musgrave  had  reluctantly  left  the  Assembly 
Eooms,  or,  strictly  speaking,  been  taken  home  at  the  early 
hour  of  two  in  the  morning.  She  slept  till  nearly  twelve, 
\vhen,  fresh  as  a  rose  and  divinely  happy,  in  her  favorite 
morning  frock,  which  was  simple  and  tailor-made,  bright 
sunshine  playing  in  her  shining  hair  and  sparkling  face, 
she  danced  down-stairs,  singing,  and  looked  into  the 
sunny  morning-room,  where  her  mother  was  already  ab- 
sorbed in  her  usual  occupations. 

''A  pretty  time  to  say  good  morning,  Miss  Kitty. 
Good  afternoon  is  nearer  the  mark.  Vanity,  vanity, 
Kitty.  Sleeping  this  bright  morning  away.  Sad  waste 
of  time." 

"Quite  true,  mother.  I  shall  never  go  to  another 
fancy  Ball — I  never  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  my  life. 
I  don't  wonder  at  girls  being  carried  away  by  such 
things.  As  for  you,  mother,  I  believe  you  enjoyed  it  as 
well  as  anybody.  Where's  Annis?  Come,  Nancy,  get 
your  hat  and  let  us  go  and  look  for  Christmas  roses. 
No,  no  walk  this  morning;  it's  half  past  twelve  already." 

The  roses  were  found,  the  conservatory  visited  and 
despoiled,  and  some  lily-of-the-valley  tucked  into  Kitty 's 
coat;  then  the  grounds  were  danced  round  and  Nancy 
sent  in  with  the  flowers.  Then  the  jeweled  ornament 
that  Kathleen  always  forgot  to  wind  was  interrogated, 


128  RICHARD   ROSNY 

with  the  usual  result  of  showing  some  wildly  impossible 
time,  and  Kitty  was  nonplussed  till  the  rumble  of  a  train 
through  the  level  meadows  increased  to  a  grinding  roar 
and  died  away,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  at  least  ten 
minutes  after  one.  Richard  was  becoming  negligent ;  he 
had  promised  not  to  be  after  half  past  twelve;  and  this 
was  his  last  day.  She  went  in  and  opened  the  piano,  but 
there  was  no  music  in  her  lingers  to-day ;  they  stumbled 
feebly  among  double  sharps  and  accidentals  and  blun- 
dered on  to  impossible  dissonances,  that  refused  to  be 
resolved  into  any  kind  of  harmony.  Chopin  was,  after 
all,  not  worth  the  trouble  of  unraveling  his  crabbed  minor 
harmonies  and  abrupt  changes  of  key.  A  step  at  last; 
she  began  to  play  better;  the  door  opened,  and,  look- 
ing over  her  shoulder  with  an  attempt  at  unconcern, 
she  saw,  with  a  deep  flush  of  disappointment,  her 
father. 

"Wrong  man,  Kitty,"  he  said.  "Very  sorry,  my 
dear;  but  poor  Dick  can't  come  to-day.  lie's  got  his 
hands  full  at  the  Pines." 

"  It  is  too  bad, ' '  she  cried.  ' '  His  mother  makes  a  per- 
fect slave  of  him — not  that  I  care ! ' ' 

''You  won't  grudge  him  to  his  mother  to-day,  Kit. 
She's  in  a  peck  of  trouble.  Poor  Belton's  gone." 

' '  Gone  ? ' '  she  echoed,  as  her  mother  came  in.  ' '  Gone 
where?" 

' '  A  very  long  way,  poor  man ; '  where  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling, '  my  dear. ' ' 

"Mr.  Belton  dead?  Oh,  how  shocking!  And  how 
sudden ! ' ' 

"He  must  have  been  ill  yesterday,"  Kathleen  said, 
sitting  down  and  turning  white.  "And  that  accounts 
for  much." 

Her  father  soon  told  all  there  was  to  tell. 

He  had  gone  round  by  his  own  paddock  to  that  neg- 
lected corner  of  the  Pines,  behind  the  house  and  kitchen- 
garden,  whence  gravel  had  at  one  time  been  dug,  to  see  if 
some  of  Belton's  trees,  which  spoiled  his  own  view  to 


UNDER   THE   PINES  129 

the  sea,  might  be  lopped  and  thinned.  They  had  dis- 
cussed it  a  day  or  two  since,  and  Belton  had  agreed  to  cut 
down  the  trees,  if  necessary;  but  had  wished  to  keep 
them  standing  if  it  could  be  done  without  blocking  the 
view. 

The  old  gravel-pit  was  near  the  top  of  a  steep  rise, 
making  a  miniature  precipice  of  six  or  seven  feet,  with 
crumbling  edges,  close  to  which  and  around  which  grew 
scattered  pines  and  broom-bushes,  hiding  the  pit.  It  was 
only  when  Colonel  Musgrave,  in  measuring  and  consid- 
ering these  trees,  had  climbed  over  the  low  and  ill-kept 
fence  that  the  gravel-pit  became  visible  to  him.  See- 
ing that  its  edge  had  been  newly  broken,  he  looked  over 
and  saw  something  at  the  foot  of  the  steep.  It  was  cov- 
ered by  unmelted  white  frost,  yet  was  too  certainly  the 
motionless  body  of  a  man. 

"He  must  have  lain  there  all  night  in  the  open,"  he 
said. 

"While  we  were  dancing  and  laughing  in  our  made- 
up  finery.  Poor,  poor  Mr.  Belton,  so  unprepared ! ' '  Kitty 
wept. 

"Who  knows?"  her  mother  said.  "It  is  our  duty 
to  believe  the  best. ' ' 

"Let  us  hope  the  best,  by  all  means.  This  opium 
habit  is  scarcely  ever  cured ;  it  is  a  disease.  It's  a  happy 
release,  Kitty,  so  don't  cry  too  much.  I  was  always 
sorry  for  the  poor  beggar ;  he  had  many  temptations ;  now 
they're  over.  And  what  a  deliverance  for  his  wife  and 
family !  Those  children  were  going  to  the  dogs,  and  poor 
Mrs.  Belton — she's  awfully  cut  up  now.  But  she'll  get 
over  that." 

"But  to  lie  there  all  night  long  and  till  nearly  mid- 
day, ' '  Mrs.  Musgrave  said.  ' '  What  were  they  about  not 
to  find  him?" 

"They  hadn't  so  much  as  missed  him.  They  were  all 
as  merry  as  grigs,  till  Rosny  told  his  mother  somebody 
ought  to  look  him  up.  Thought  he  was  safe  in  his  growl- 
ery  all  the  time." 


130  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"How  she  must  reproach  herself!"  Mrs.  Musgrave 
said. 

' '  Oh !  mother,  let  us  go  to  her  at  once, ' '  cried  Kitty. 
"She  has  Richard;  but,  after  all,  he's  only  a  man." 

"Only  a  man?  Well,  Kit,  I  hope  you'll  remember 
that  and  manage  your  man  better  than  poor  Mrs.  Belton 
has  managed  hers.  Be  kind  to  him.  But  don't  be  al- 
ways bothering  him  to  kiss  you,  when  he's  no  mind  to 
it " 

"Papa!" 

"And  when  he's  wrapped  up  in  duties  and  worries, 
don't  fancy  he's  cooling  off  and  forgetting  you.  If  he's 
cross  and  snappish,  think  it's  business  or  liver,  don't 
think  it's  your  precious  self.  Don't  marry  him  at  all, 
unless  you  care  enough  for  him  to  put  up  with  his  fail- 
ings. And  don't  marry  him  at  all,  unless  you  are  sure 
he  cares  for  you.  Once  sure  of  that,  stick  to  it,  but  don 't 
expect  him  to  talk  about  it  or  to  be  always  thinking  about 
you.  Men  have  so  many  things  to  think  of;  they  can't 
be  forever  bothering  about  women  and  feelings.  But 
they  do  feel,  Kit,  and  a  precious  sight  deeper  than  women, 
it 's  my  belief. ' ' 

"But,  after  all,  papa,  you  are  only  a  man." 

"Come,  come,  Kitty.  Take  your  father's  words  to 
heart.  It  is  not  often  that  he  preaches.  Let  us  go  in  to 
luncheon  at  once  and  then  run  down  to  the  Pines,"  her 
mother  said. 

"And  above  all,"  continued  the  father,  too  much 
absorbed  in  his  thoughts  to  notice  interruptions,  ' '  never 
nag.  Forgive  much,  but  always  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones. ' ' 

"There  ought  to  be  nothing  to  forgive,"  Kitty  said. 

"Ah,  Kit,  there's  the  mistake  women  make.  If  you 
insist  on  a  man 's  being  a  saint,  you  may  turn  him  into  a 
devil,"  her  father  replied. 

But  why  did  he  choose  the  moment  of  poor  Belton 's 
death  for  a  lecture  on  wifely  duty? 


CHAPTER   XII 

SUSPICION 

""WHAT  a  deliverance  for  poor  Mrs.  Belton !"  was  the 
general  verdict  upon  the  tragedy  at  the  Pines.  Yet  the 
condition  in  which  that  poor  lady  continued  for  many 
days  was  more  that  of  one  condemned  than  of  one  deliv- 
ered. She  fell  from  one  fit  of  hysteria  to  another,  re- 
proaching herself  in  the  wildest  terms  for  neglecting  her 
husband  and  accusing  herself  of  a  thousand  exaggerated 
faults  and  derelictions  of  duty  toward  him.  She  had  been 
selfish  and  exacting,  while  he  was  suffering  and  in  danger. 
She  had  sacrificed  him  for  her  children.  She  had  cen- 
sured him  and  complained  of  his  gloom  and  silence,  when 
he  was  dying.  She  could  not  sleep ;  she  would  not  suffer 
Richard  out  of  her  sight  during  the  whole  of  the  first, 
half -delirious  night;  but  clung  continually  to  his  hand 
and  poured  forth  incoherent  lamentations  and  hysteric 
sobs,  her  discolored  face  visible  in  the  dim  light.  He 
let  her  rave  herself  out  and  enjoy  such  sympathy  and 
consolation  as  the  mere  sight  of  him  afforded.  She 
would  not  so  much  as  see  the  children  for  the  first  few 
days. 

"The  shock  has  unhinged  her;  she  is  not  herself," 
Richard  told  Eitty  next  day,  knowing  how  futile  it  was 
to  offer  his  mother  any  consolation.  ' '  But  the  children, 
dearest,  if  you  could  stay  with  them  a  little,  it  would  be 
kind." 

' '  You  poor  boy ! ' '  Kitty  said  tenderly.  ' '  Why  should 
all  this  come  upon  you?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  with  a  strange  look. 

"Well,  he  was  a  wild  un  in  his  day,"  Jaynes,  the 

131 


132  RICHARD   ROSNY 

carrier,  said,  when  he  stopped  at  the  thatched  stone  cot- 
tage opposite  the  Pines  to  deliver  some  packets  of  seed 
to  Silas  Gatrell,  gardener  and  odd-job  man;  "bound  to 
be  took  off  sudden.  Fine  vigure  of  a  man  as  ever  I  see 
and  middlen  civil  spoke  when  sober." 

"I  liked  en  well  enough,"  Gatrell  returned,  "when 
he  come  to  Ingrestone  fourteen  year  ago.  A  wasn't  so 
to  say  drinky  then.  Liked  his  glass,  and  now  and  agen 
he'd  take  one  too  many.  Many  a  time  I've  helped  carr 
en  indoors.  'Twasn't  honest  drink  done  for  he.  'Twas 
what  he  took  for  sleep.  He'd  be  up  and  down  all  night 
long,  out  in  gairden  and  back  agen,  walk,  walk,  walk.  A 
couldn  't  hrest. ' ' 

"Do  ee  think  he  took  too  much  o'  the  sleep  stuff?" 

"Vurry  like;  they  mostly  do.  They  cain't  forget. 
That's  wher  'tis." 

"Well,  there,  it's  a  warning  to  them  that's  left. 
'Twas  shameful  the  way  he  used  that  poor  lady.  And 
the  children,  they'd  hrun  like  hrabbits  at  the  sight  of  en, 
so  they  say.  He  hadn't  no  call  to  use  the  poor  things 
like  that.  'Tain't  like  when  a  poor  man  comes  home  in 
liquor  and  vinds  the  young  uns  littered  all  over  the 
plaace,  the  baby  a-cryen,  the  missus  a-jawen,  the  vire 
blocked  up,  and  no  comfort  nowhere,  and  lets  drive  at  'em 
all  hround.  I've  yeared  tell  as  how  Belton'd  gaily  the 
children  all  hround  gairden  with  a  stick;  a  wouldn't  let 
the  poor  things  be.  It 's  a  judgment,  Gatrell,  you  may  be 
bound.  Where  was  it  they  vound  en  ?  Under  the  trees  1 
You  med  ha  seen  en  from  your  house." 

' '  I  med  a  zeen  it,  if  I  'd  a  looked,  Jaynes.  I  med  a  told 
'em  things,  if  I'd  a  ben  asked,"  replied  Gatrell,  thought- 
fully chewing  a  straw  as  he  leaned  over  his  gate  in  the 
wintry  dusk,  and  looked  on  the  ground  with  an  expres- 
sionless face. 

Jaynes,  leaning  against  his  dusty  shafts,  in  which  the 
bony  old  brown  horse  was  glad  to  stand  still  with  closed 
eyes  and  one  leg  drawn  up,  contemplated  the  gardener's 
lined  and  sphinxlike  features  for  some  seconds  in  silence, 


SUSPICION  133 

his  hands  plunged  deep  in  his  pockets  and  his  hat  pushed 
over  his  bushy  brows. 

"I  hreckon  you  med  a  year'd  summat  if  you'd  a 
hearkened,"  he  said  presently. 

''I  hreckon  a  med  a  year'd  whatever  there  was  to 
year,"  was  the  slow  reply,  without  change  of  feature  or 
position. 

"I  hreckon  a  didn't  go  into  that  there  pit  only  for 
pleasure,  Silas  Gatrell,"  continued  the  carrier,  also 
without  change  of  position. 

"I  hreckon  there's  a  sight  more  things  than  anybody 
ever  knows  in  this  world,  let  alone  the  world  to  come," 
replied  the  gardener. 

"If  she  did  give  en  a  shove,  you  couldn't  blame  her, 
poor  thing!"  continued  the  carrier.  "There  wasn't  no 
bearen  of  en  for  the  likes  of  she ;  'tain 't  what  a  lady  is 
bred  up  to  look  for  in  a  husband,  drink  or  no  drink.  'Tis 
entirely  different  with  the  likes  of  we." 

' '  They  're  much  of  a  muchness,  gentle  or  simple,  I  al- 
low," the  gardener  rejoined;  "a  ooman  can  aggravate, 
lady  or  no  lady.  And  when  a  ooman  jaws,  a  man  ups 
with  his  fists, ' '  he  added,  with  the  gravity  of  one  stating 
an  immutable  law  of  nature. 

"  'Tis  terrible  hrough  for  gentry,"  the  carrier  per- 
sisted. "And  there  was  no  commonalty  in  she.  She's 
pure  bred  gentry,  made  vine  droughout.  She  couldn't 
abide  a  man  that  acted  that  common  and  cruel.  So, 
vurry  like,  she  give  en  a  shove  over  pit  edge.  'Twas  a 
miserable  dark  night.  The  maids  in  kitchen  they  year'd 
voices  like  folks  vallen  out.  Too  well  used  to  't  to  mind. 
A  wras  like  a  crazy  man,  they  zay,  with  the  sleep  stuff." 

"Aye,  it  is  not  like  honest  drink.  It  do  drive  folk 
crazy  in  the  long  hrun.  Ter  'ble  pleasant  'tis  to  be  sure, 
but  it  do  beguile  the  zenses  of  mankind.  I  never  drunk 
none,  but  I've  took  it  t'other  way.  'Twas  when  I  was  in 
hospital  pretty  nigh  crazy  with  the  pain.  Calls  it  high 
derned  subjection  or  zummat.  First  they  scratched  me 
in  the  earm  with  a  middlen  shearp  knife ;  then  they  took  a 


134  RICHARD    ROSNY 

little  titty  squirt,  and  squirted  the  stuff  into  the  scratch. 
Darned  if  I  didn't  quiet  down  like  a  young  babe  as  soon 
as  the  stuff  come  into  me.  It  hrun  all  drough  me  and 
hround  and  hround ;  and  I  velt  that  happy  as  never  was. 
I  thought  I  was  gone  dead  and  had  awaked  up  in  the 
kingdom  of  heaven.  Pain  was  all  gone  and  everything 
zimmed  that  beautiful  and  still  and  happy.  But  it  does 
not  bide  long.  'Tis  like  a  drame,  when  anybody  waakens. 
It  drives  folk  crazy  if  they  does  it  often." 

"Vurry  like  he  was  crazed  aready,"  commented  the 
carrier;  "and  she  done  it  to  save  's  life.  They  used  to 
stufflicate  crazy  folk,  my  vather  says.  But  there's  laws 
agen  it  nowadays,  more 's  the  pity. ' ' 

' '  There 's  laws  agen  taken  of  characters  away,  Jaynes. 
You  mind  that  and  keep  a  still  tongue  in  yeh  head  about 
this  yere  job,  will  ee  ?  " 

"Go  an  with  ee;  talk  about  my  tongue?  Look  at 
yourn.  I  don't  blame  her,  poor  thing.  He  med  a  hit 
her,  and  she  med  a  hit  en  agen  or  give  en  a  shove  and  no 
hearm  meant.  All  we  know  is  they  was  vallen  out,  and 
yolluppen  at  one  another  and  'twas  dark  night. ' ' 

"All  we  knows,  Josh  Jaynes,  is  Accidental  Death. 
That 's  all  we  're  any  call  to  know, ' '  replied  the  gardener, 
slowly  raising  himself  from  the  gate  and  sending  a  search- 
ing glance  all  round  the  clear  sky,  whence  a  rosy  after- 
glow was  fading,  and  into  which  Orion  was  slowly  begin- 
ning to  climb  above  the  distant  sea.  ' '  More  vrost  comen, 
I  'low.  Lard  a  massy ! "  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  start  that 
caused  the  carrier  to  look  round  in  the  direction  of  his 
startled  gaze,  and  find  its  cause  in  the  pale  face  and  slight 
figure  of  Gerald  Belton,  who  appeared  ghostlike  in  the 
dusk  from  behind  the  tilt  of  the  cart.  "If  you  didn't 
give  me  a  turn,  Master  Gerald. ' ' 

"Evenen,  sir,"  said  the  carrier,  touching  his  hat  in 
some  confusion ;  "  I  must  go  on  home.  I  '11  call  for  they 
empties  a  Wednesday,  Gatrell,  good  night  to  ee." 

'  *  Come  on  indoors,  Master  Gerald, ' '  the  gardener  said 
with  forced  cheerfulness,  when  the  old  horse  had  been 


SUSPICION  135 

roused  from  his  blinking  reverie  and  the  cart  had  rattled 
and  creaked  away;  "  'tis  mis'ble  cwold  for  ee,  come  on  in. 
by  the  vire.  My  missus  have  put  a  taatie  down  to  hroast 
vor  ee.  Vurry  like  he  nied  come  in  to-night,  she  says. 
How 's  mother  ? ' ' 

Gerald,  very  white  and  quivering,  followed  the  gar- 
dener's heavy  footsteps  along  the  narrow  path  between 
gooseberry-bushes  to  the  cottage  door,  which  threw  out  a 
hospitable  glow,  disclosing  the  substantial  form  and 
wholesome,  friendly  face  of  the  gardener's  wife.  She 
welcomed  her  long-missed  favorite  very  heartily ;  she  had 
more  than  once  sheltered  him  with  the  younger  children 
from  his  father's  rage  in  her  cottage. 

' '  Glad  to  see  ee,  Master  Gerald ;  step  in,  do,  and  set 
down  to  a  cup  o'  tea.  Here's  a  cake  I  baked  a  purpose 
for  ee  avore  Christmas,  and  taaties  hroasten  in  wood-ash. 
Come,  my  dear,  cheer  up ;  you'll  zim  to  feel  better  now  the 
inquest  is  over,"  she  said,  placing  a  chair  in  front  of 
the  blazing  hearth  for  him;  "ter'ble  bad  for  ee,  to  be 
sure. ' ' 

' '  Have  you  heard  the  verdict  ? ' '  Gerald  asked,  loung- 
ing wearily  in  the  chair,  miserable,  but  comforted  by  the 
warmth  and  friendly  voices. 

"Aye,  we've  a-y eared.  Accidental  Death,"  Gatrell 
replied.  "So  ee  mustn't  take  on  too  much  about  what 
can't  be  helped  nor  mended." 

" Was  it  accidental?"  Gerald  asked,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  blaze,  while  the  gardener  and  his  wife  looked  at  each 
other  above  his  head.  "Do  you  know  if  my  father  had 
any  enemies,  Gatrell  ? ' ' 

' '  Lord  love  the  poor  buoy !  don 't  ee  take  no  such  mag- 
gots into  your  head,  sir.  The  poor  gentleman  had  his 
faults,  but  he  wasn't  altogether  misliked.  A  wasn't 
robbed,  sir;  there  was  his  watch  and  all  vound  on  em. 
You've  took  this  yere  job  too  much  to  heart.  Don't  ee 
think  no  more  about  it.  Be  ee  gwine  back  to  school?" 

"Richard  says  I'm  to  go  to  the  funeral,"  continued 
Gerald,  in  whose  overstrung  brain  a  confused  medley  of 


136  RICHARD    ROSNY 

terrible  possibilities,  suggested  by  the  fragments  of  talk 
overheard  in  crossing  the  road,  whirled  distractingly. 

"Why,  of  course,  my  dear;  it's  only  right,"  said  the 
gardener 's  wife ;  ' '  the  oldest  son  is  chief  mourner. ' ' 

Gerald  shuddered  and  spread  his  hands  to  the  blaze 
with  a  murmur  of  repugnance.  "I  can't,  I  can't,"  he 
sighed.  ' '  I  shall  never  be  happy  again,  Mrs.  Gatrell.  I 
said  I  wished  he  was  dead,  that  very  night,  that  very 
night,  and  I  did  wish  it!" 

"But  you  don't  now,  and  you  wouldn't  if  you'd  a 
known,"  she  said,  tender  pity  in  her  voice.  "Them  as 
are  sorry  are  forgiven ;  it 's  in  the  prayer-book. ' ' 

The  cheerful  comfort  of  the  cottage  and  the  kindness 
of  his  old  friends  soon  worked  a  healing  charm  on  the 
boy's  distracted  brain.  It  was  all  so  pleasant  and 
friendly  there.  The  china  cats  on  the  curtained  mantel- 
piece, the  colored  Scripture  prints  and  glaring  pictures 
of  prize  fruits  and  flowers  on  the  walls,  the  dresser  with 
its  shining  crockery,  the  white-faced  clock  ticking  loud 
and  slow  in  the  corner,  the  books  and  flowered  tea-tray  on 
the  chest  of  drawers,  the  high-backed  armchair  in  which 
Gatrell  took  his  ease  and  his  pipe  at  the  end  of  the  day — 
all  were  old  familiar  friends  reassuring  in  their  homely 
reality,  and  potent  to  charm  away  the  nightmare  terrors 
that  had  oppressed  him  in  the  last  few  days.  The  very 
accent  of  the  country  voices  echoed  of  happy  times,  when 
the  children  used  to  be  feasted  on  roast  potatoes  and 
sugared  bread  and  butter  and  entertained  with  old  tales 
and  rustic  lore. 

Orion  was  well  on  his  way  across  the  southern  heav- 
ens, with  his  shining  hounds  in  full  chase,  when  at  last 
Gerald  went  home,  secretly  afraid  of  the  dark  and  re- 
lieved to  find  that  Gatrell  had  to  go  to  the  Pines  himself. 

"That  buoy's  tenderer-hearted  than  what  a  buoy 
ought  to  be,"  the  gardener  said  when  he  came  back; 
' '  growen  too  vast ;  he 's  all  hrun  up  to  stalk. ' ' 

"He  was  always  terrible  old-fashioned,  and  trouble 
heve  made  en  softer-hearted  than  reason.  Whatever  put 


SUSPICION  137 

it  into  his  head?  He  couldn't  ha'  seen  nothen,  do  ee 
think?" 

''No  fear.  A  med  a-yeared  talk.  But  there,  Belton 
was  enough  to  scare  anybody  to  death,  let  alone  a  slip  of 
a  buoy  like  that.  A  good  job  to  get  he  underground  and 
no  mistake." 

''And  I  scolded  Richard  for  being  hard  on  poor  Mr. 
Belton,  and  misunderstanding  him,"  Kitty  confessed 
after  the  funeral  to  her  mother. 

"I  always  thought  he  behaved  remarkably  well  to 
him,  Kitty.  It  was  a  difficult  relationship.  But  the 
strong  feeling  he  showed  by  the  grave,  I  must  admit,  sur- 
prised me.  Especially  as  your  Richard  is  anything  but 
demonstrative,  my  dear.  And  he  must  feel  the  relief  it 
is  to  them  all. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  mother,  but  the  pity  of  it !  Richard  would  feel 
the  pity  of  it." 

"Well,  Kitten,"  her  father  said,  "by  the  time  you 
have  stood  at  as  many  graves  as  I  have,  you'll  find  that 
remorse  is  the  thing  that  brings  the  biggest  lump  in  your 
throat.  You  think  you  might  have  judged  the  poor  chap 
more  kindly;  you  might  have  done  so  many  things  and 
left  so  many  undone.  When  the  drums  are  rolling  and 
the  Dead  March  is  wailing,  and  you  march  in  slow  time, 
with  arms  reversed,  behind  the  gun-carriage,  you  think 
there's  nothing  you  wouldn't  have  done  for  him  or  put 
up  with.  Be  kind  to  people  while  they  're  above  ground, 
Kitty;  it's  no  use  after." 

No  one  was  more  astonished  at  Richard 's  demeanor  at 
the  graveside  than  Adrian  Rosny.  That  his  nephew's 
nerves  should  be  shaken  by  this  sudden  death  and  all  its 
painful  accompaniments,  seemed  a  monstrous  supposi- 
tion; he  was  used  to  sudden  and  violent  deaths.  What 
had  that  robust  and  light-hearted  young  fellow  to  do  with 
nerves?  Richard  was  no  introspective  student,  no  mor- 
bid dreamer,  but  a  man  of  action  and  fresh  air,  gay  to 
levity  and  faultily  thoughtless;  yet  he  shed  tears  over 
the  grave  of  a  man  he  professed  to  hate  and  whose  death 


138  RICHARD    ROSNY 

was  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  everybody  he  cared  for. 
Mrs.  Rosny  suggested  that  love  had  softened  dear  Dick's 
heart.  "He  chose  a  good  girl,"  she  said,  ''and  her  in- 
fluence is  beginning  to  tell.  I  knew  there  were  unsealed 
deeps  in  his  nature.  This  terrible  awakening  to  Life's 
tragedy  and  reality  will  strengthen  the  dear  boy's  char- 
acter. His  responsibilities  are  great.  Some  natures 
never  develop  except  under  burdens.  What  will  he  do 
with  all  those  wild  children?" 

So  Richard  was  asking  himself  and  his  mother. 
' '  Why  do  you  agitate  me  with  such  proposals  ? ' '  she  said. 
' '  How  can  I  think  of  anything  but  my  terrible  loss  yet  ? 
You  have  no  pity. ' ' 

"Muffle,  dear,  I  can't  stay  ashore  forever,"  he  re- 
plied, ' '  else  I  wouldn  't  worry  you  just  now.  These  holi- 
days are  nearly  over.  And  Gerald  must  not  go  back  to 
his  old  associations.  He  has  had  a  great  shock,  he  is 
hardly  fit  for  school  at  all. ' ' 

"Then  why  tear  the  child  away  from  home?  Why 
rob  me  of  my  chief  comfort?" 

"Dear  mother,  don't  you  understand?  Home  is  the 
worst  place  for  him.  He  can't  forget  anything  while  he 
is  here." 

"Why  should  he?  You  speak  as  if  it  was  wrong  for 
the  boy  to  grieve  over  his  poor  father's  sad  and  sudden 
death.  Really,  Richard,  I  think  you  have  no  heart.  My 
poor,  poor  Horace,  not  yet  cold  in  his  grave !  And  his 
son  must  be  made  to  forget  him,  forget!  The  want  of 
feeling  in  the  others  jars  sadly  upon  me.  I  would  rather 
part  with  them.  But  Gerald  and  Adeline  are  my  only 
comfort.  Poor  darlings,  they  will  never  be  happy 
again. ' ' 

"That  is  just  what  I  am  afraid  of,"  he  said,  with 
constrained  gentleness.  "Thorne  says  they  will  never 
get  over  it,  if  they  stay  here  and  brood  over  it.  Muffle, 
dear,  you  are  too  much  upset  to  realize  what  this  has  been 
to  those  unlucky  children,  especially  Gerald.  The  boy  is 
hysterical ;  he  fancies  himself  to  blame  for  it ;  he  exagger- 


SUSPICION  139 

ates  his  feelings.  I  can't  explain  it  all — he  can  think  of 
nothing  else;  he  needs  the  greatest  care." 

"And  who  but  his  own  mother  can  care  for  him  and 
sympathize  with  his  natural  grief?  Gerald  inherits  my 
nature;  his  feelings  are  strong;  we  comfort  each  other, 
and  you  try  to  tear  us  apart." 

"Oh,  mother,  think  of  the  poor  boy,  don't  think  of 
yourself;  don't  sacrifice  Gerald  to  your  grief;  consider 
how  young  he  is — just  at  an  age  when  it's  touch  and  go 
with  him,  when  even  small  things  make  a  mark  for  life. 
Let  him  go  to  some  cheerful  place  where  he  will  lead  a 
healthy  boy 's  life  until  he  recovers  from  this  shock. ' ' 

''Sacrifice  my  son?"  she  cried  with  hysterical  sobs. 
"Think  of  myself?  Richard,  you  are  more  than  cruel; 
you  are  brutal.  I  should  never  have  believed  it  possi- 
ble that  any  man  could  speak  so  to  his  own  mother. 
After  all,  what  does  anything  matter  to  me  ?  Insult  me, 
and  accuse  me  of  anything  you  like,  tear  my  darling 
children  from  me;  they  can  comfort,  they  can  not  heal 
me.  I  can  scarcely  be  more  desolate  than  I  am — but 
don't  drive  them  from  their  home  and  their  mother." 

"Hush,  Muffle,  hush,"  he  muttered.  "You  are  up- 
set, overcome;  we  misunderstand  each  other,  I  blunder, 
but  Heaven  above  us  knows  there  is  nothing  I  would 
not  do." 

"You  came  between  me  and  my  darling  husband,'* 
she  sobbed,  ' '  and  now  you  come  between  me  and  my  pre- 
cious children.  Why  will  you  interfere?" 

His  lips  grew  livid,  his  face  white,  the  scar  left  by 
the  fire  showed  purple  on  the  pallor.  He  paced  the  room 
silently,  his  dry  lips  opening  and  closing,  as  if  trying  to 
speak.  At  last  he  stopped  and  turned  his  eyes,  caverns 
of  dark  blue  flame,  upon  her. 

"You  could  never  be  happy  unless  you  were  miser- 
able," he  burst  out.  "Ah,  Muffle,"  he  added,  gently, 
"  if  I  thought  you  meant  what  you  say,  I  would  leave  you 
to  manage  by  yourself;  but " 

' '  You  speak  as  if  my  sorrow  were  put  on, ' '  she  broke 


140  RICHARD   ROSNY 

in;  "you  have  no  feeling,  no  sympathy;  you  can  not  even 
understand  how  deeply  you  have  wounded  me.  You  are 
too  much  absorbed  in  your  own  happiness,  too  much 
wrapped  up  in  Kathleen  to  enter  into  your  mother's 
grief. ' ' 

"I  think  I'll  go  and  smoke,"  he  said,  rather  hastily, 
leaving  the  room  and  taking  refuge  in  the  free  air,  where 
the  pines  unburdened  their  sad  memories  to  the  wind. 
"Poor  Belton!"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  filled  his  pipe, 
"After  all — "  He  sighed  deeply,  his  face  went  gray 
with  pain.  Then  he  pulled  himself  together.  "Well, 
she 's  made  like  that,  and  I  'm  made  like  this,  and  we  drive 
one  another  frantic,"  he  thought.  The  pipe  was  alight 
now,  the  smoke  rising  in  blue  rings,  and  he  remembered 
how  he  had  divorced  himself  from  the  comfort  of  this 
gentle  companion  once  for  a  whole  week  for  Kitty 's  sweet 
sake,  and  smiled  rather  sadly,  his  eyes  turned  toward  her 
window.  There  was  his  sheet-anchor  and  his  beacon- 
light,  he  felt,  with  a  throb  of  joyous  hope ;  there  he  pos- 
sessed treasure  beyond  price,  infinitely  beyond  all  that 
he  had  any  right  to  wish. 

"  I  'd  better  appeal  to  Thorne, ' '  he  decided,  when  the 
pipe  was  smoked  and  the  evening  mist  began  to  rise. 
"I'll  go  to-morrow  the  first  thing." 

"I  must  speak  to  her  myself,"  said  Thorne,  the 
young  surgeon,  whose  bills  Belton  had  never  paid.  ' '  Not 
that  I  like  to  meddle  if  I  can  help  it.  I  sha'n't  mince 
the  matter ;  it  would  be  cruel  kindness. ' ' 

"Why  should  the  children  both  take  this  particular 
craze  into  their  heads?"  Richard  asked. 

Only  because  their  nervous  systems  have  been  over- 
done. A  fit  of  indigestion  has  made  people  think  them- 
selves guilty  of  the  unpardonable  sin." 

"But  why  this  particular  sin?"  Richard  urged. 

"Well,  I  suppose  there  had  been  rows  that  day.  Poor 
Mr.  Belton  had  certainly,  from  appearances,  been  to  his 
usual  source  of  consolation,  and  that  always  made  him 
unbearably  irritable.  These  rows  and  the  surmise  of 


SUSPICION  141 

people  being  with  him  and  foul  play  must  have  found  its 
way  to  their  ears  and  given  the  fancy  that  form.  They  '11 
soon  forget  it  with  proper  treatment." 

' '  Was  that  surmise  general  ?  What  did  you  think  ? ' ' 
Rosny  asked,  fixing  the  young  doctor's  eyes  with  his 
burning  gaze. 

Dr.  Thorne  went  to  the  window,  which  opened  into 
a  bower  of  myrtles,  through  which  a  blue  sea  sparkled 
in  morning  glory;  the  soft  sound  of  wavelets  break- 
ing on  the  sand  was  heard  in  the  silence,  during  which 
Richard  watched  him  anxiously.  Presently  he  turned 
abruptly  and  looked  at  Rosny  with  an  enigmatical  ex- 
pression. 

"Thoughts  are  free  and  chatter  idiotic,"  he  said 
sharply;  "I  am  passing  your  way  this  morning  and  will 
call.  Good-by." 

In  consequence  of  the  doctor's  call,  Gerald  was  sent 
on  a  long  visit  to  Merstone,  where  there  were  companions 
of  his  own  age,  and  whence  he  rode  daily  to  a  tutor,  and 
Adeline  was  despatched  to  cousins  of  her  father's,  who 
had  girls  of  his  own — all  this  to  the  great  comfort  and 
relief  of  Richard. 


10 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"i  WILL  ARISE" 

POOR  Belton  was  scarcely  laid  in  his  grave  when  bills 
began  to  pour  in  like  a  flood,  some  of  them  years  old,  and 
the  chance  of  settling  a  quarter  of  the  claims  appeared  to 
Richard  problematical  in  the  extreme.  No  will  was  dis- 
coverable, but,  as  Edith  held  it  indelicate  even  to  think 
of  such  sordid  things  for  the  next  few  months  and  flatly 
refused  to  look  through  his  papers,  this  was  by  no  means 
remarkable. 

"I  am  inclined  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  Horace's 
having  made  any  testamentary  disposition  of  his  prop- 
erty, ' '  Godfrey  Belton  told  Richard  in  confidence.  ' '  In 
the  first  place,  he  was  far  too  indolent  to  make  a  will ;  in 
the  second,  he  had  nothing  to  leave." 

"Nothing?"  echoed  Richard.  "Why,  the  Pines 
alone " 

' '  Belongs  to  me, ' '  Godfrey  said.  ' '  He  began  to  mort- 
gage it  soon  after  his  marriage.  Ingrestone  House  was 
mortgaged  from  its  foundations  as  it  was  built. ' ' 

"But  the  share  in  the  banking  business?" 

"  It  is  many  years  since  he  had  any  share  in  the  busi- 
ness. I  gave  him  a  yearly  income,  but  he  had  not  the 
smallest  claim  upon  us.  You  may  remember  that  I 
warned  you  on  your  coming  of  age  never  to  enter  into 
any  pecuniary  relations  with  your  stepfather.  I  did 
not  judge  it  fit  at  the  time  to  divulge  the  very  strong 
reasons  that  made  it  incumbent  on  me  to  take  that  de- 
cisive step.  It  was  advisable  while  he  lived  that  you 
should  have  as  much  confidence  in  that  unfortunate 
man's  integrity  as  was  consistent  with  your  own  secu- 
143 


"I   WILL   ARISE"  143 

rity.  But  now  that  he  has  been  called  to  his  account  and 
can  no  longer  be  helped  or  harmed  by  the  estimation  of 
his  fellow  creatures — and  in  spite  of  the  duty  and  desire 
that  we  all  cherish  to  say  only  the  best  of  those  who  have 
passed  away — it  seems  just  and  even  necessary  that  you 
should  know  what  can  scarcely  be  made  known  to  his 
widow.  She  is,  indeed,  the  natural  and  legal  guardian 
of  his  children;  but,  considering  her  sex  and  character, 
and  in  default  of  near  relatives  of  her  own  generation, 
she  will  no  doubt  transfer  her  responsibilities  to  you. 
You  will,  undoubtedly,  be  the  virtual  guardian  of  these 
poor  children,  Richard.  Therefore,  I  repeat,  it  is  just 
and  right  and  in  a  manner  necessary  that  you  should 
learn  the  whole  truth  concerning  my  unfortunate 
nephew. 

"Far  from  having  any  claim  upon  Belton,  Laking  & 
Co.,  Horace  has  owed  the  firm  many  thousand  pounds  for 
several  years,  during  which  he  has  received  an  ample 
yearly  income,  to  which  he  had  not  the  slightest  claim, 
and  which  he  squandered.  Perhaps  we  should  have  with- 
held that  income  when  we  saw  how  little  the  children 
profited  by  it.  We  did  reduce  it;  before  his  death  we 
were  on  the  point  of  taking  steps  to  insure  the  proper  edu- 
cation of  the  children.  Our  care  for  the  honor  and  name 
of  our  house  put  us  to  great  disadvantage  in  our  dealings 
with  him,  of  which  he  was  not  slow  to  profit.  Horace  was 
ingenious,  he  was  not  without  capacity  in  a  perverse  di- 
rection. The  system  of  fraud  and  forgery  by  which  he 
embezzled  large  sums  of  money  from  the  firm  was  most 
complicated  and  clever,  and  long  eluded  all  our  attempts 
at  discovery.  My  unfortunate  nephew  was  cursed  by  the 
gambler's  temperament;  he  probably  deluded  himself 
with  the  intention  of  restoring  what  he  appropriated  tem- 
porarily to  his  own  use.  But,  as  is  almost  always  the 
case,  he  would  appear  never  to  have  found  the  opportu- 
nity to  restore  what,  during  a  considerable  period  of 
time,  it  must  have  been  his  custom  to  take.  I  divulge 
these  painful  facts,  Richard,  in  order  that  you  may  per- 


144  RICHARD   ROSNY 

ceive  how  far  our  firm  is  from  being  under  any  obliga- 
tion to  provide  for  Horace  Belton's  children.  The  firm 
held  that  to  abstain  from  publishing  these  sinister  trans- 
actions, and  thus  utterly  ruining  him,  was  sufficient  gen- 
erosity on  their  part.  The  income  that  I  felt  it  my  duty 
to  provide  for  my  grand-nephews  and  nieces  was  not 
granted  by  the  bank. ' ' 

"Do  you  mean,"  asked  Richard,  shocked,  "do  you 
really  mean  that  he  was  liable  to  be  tried  and  impris- 
oned for  embezzlement?" 

"That  certainly  is  my  meaning,  Richard.  He  prac- 
tised for  a  period  extending  over  several  years  fraud  and 
forgery  of  an  extensive  and  complicated  nature.  Our 
credit  was  severely  shaken  by  the  efforts  we  made  to 
make  good  his  defalcations.  Our  accounts  were  embar- 
rassed, our  system  shattered;  for,  having  admitted  the 
execution  of  such  frauds,  it  had  to  be  entirely  remodeled ; 
our  financial  operations  were  crippled,  our  very  existence 
was  imperiled.  Belton,  Laking  &  Co.  is  no  longer  what 
it  was  before  Horace  plundered  it ;  its  palmy  days  have 
long  been  over. ' ' 

"Poor  beggar!"  sighed  Richard.  "No  wonder  he 
tried  to  forget.  Poor,  unhappy  man!  Dishonored, 
ruined,  degraded  in  his  own  eyes,  without  hope ! ' ' 

"He  had  only  himself  to  thank,  Richard." 

' '  That  must  have  been  the  bitterest  sting  of  all,  Mr. 
Belton.  The  perpetual  remorse,  the  haunting  memory, 
the  impossibility  of  ever  again  looking  men  in  the  face 
with  a  clean  sense  of  honor,  the  thought  of  what  might 
have  been,  the  impossibility  of  ever  undoing  what  he  had 
done.  Think  of  it,  picture  it!  What  hell  could  be 
worse?" 

Mr.  Belton  was  dumb  with  amazement ;  he  gazed  open- 
eyed  at  the  moved  face  of  Richard,  who  spoke  with  a 
passion  that  rang  in  his  voice  and  quivered  in  his  ges- 
tures, as  he  turned  and  paced  the  room  with  broken 
utterance  and  sobbing  breath. 

"Richard,  my  dear  young  man,"  he  said,   "your 


"I   WILL    ARISE"  145 

feelings  do  you  the  utmost  honor ;  but  at  the  same  time — 
mercy  should  ever  be  tempered  with  justice." 

"Justice!"  he  broke  in.  "What  is  justice?  God 
alone  knows  the  true  justice  of  things ;  there  is  no  knowl- 
edge in  man." 

"True,  very  true.  Man  can  be  but  approximately 
just.  But  a  merciful  judgment  of  the  criminal  and  the 
fallen,  whose  lot,  as  Scripture  tells  us — the  lot  of  trans- 
gressors— is  undoubtedly  and  deservedly  hard,  should  be 
kept  within  bounds  and  tempered  by  a  just  consideration 
for  those  innocent  persons  who  most  undeservedly  suffer 
from  those  transgressions." 

"Ah!  but  they  have  their  innocence;  and  that  is 
worth  all,  worth  everything." 

"Very  true.  But  in  this  conjunction  of  ideas  it  is  cal- 
culated to  destroy,  or  at  least  confuse,  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  equity,  for  the  discussion  of  which  you  are  at 
present  too  much  moved — a  circumstance  that  I  con- 
fess, considering  your  peculiar  relations  with  my  unfor- 
tunate nephew,  astonishes  me." 

"Mr.  Belton,"  protested  Richard  with  earnest  sad- 
ness, "that  poor  man  never  injured  me;  he  treated  me 
better  than  his  own  children,  and  he — he  is  dead. ' ' 

"Very  true.  He  is  gone  to  his  account,  where,  let 
us  trust,  he  will  find  mercy.  Whither  he  was  doubtless 
RO  suddenly  called  in  mercy.  For,  however  sad  and  pain- 
ful recent  events  may  have  been  to  us  all,  Richard,  we 
can  but  feel  that  to  such  a  life  the  end  was  timely,  was 
the  greatest  boon." 

"Who  can  say  that?  It  is  not  for  us  to  say.  We 
know  nothing,"  returned  Richard,  sadly.  "But  it  is  no 
use  talking  of  what  can  not  be  mended.  The  question  is, 
what  are  the  children's  prospects — and  my  mother's? 
That  is  what  I  came  to  consult  you  about,  Mr.  Belton. ' ' 

' '  I  shall  not  allow  them  to  want,  Richard ;  but  at  the 
same  time,  I  have  other  and  more  pressing  claims  upon  a 
purse  that  is  far  from  being  bottomless.  My  family  is 
large  and  I  am  not  a  young  man.  I  come  near  to  ac- 


146  RICHARD    ROSNY 

complishing  the  years  allotted  by  the  Psalmist,  and,  al- 
though my  health  is  excellent,  I  begin  to  feel  the  burden 
of  my  days. ' ' 

"You  have,  indeed,  been  generous,  sir.  I  feel  that 
your  generosity  ought  not  to  be  so  preyed  upon.  But  I 
don't  know  what  in  the  world  to  do  myself.  My  own 
means  are  small,  my  pay  is  smaller.  And  I  am  engaged 
to  be  married.  It  never  came  into  my  head  that  the  chil- 
dren would  have  to  be  helped.  I  should  not  have  thought 
of  marriage  in  that  case.  But  now — I  am  bound  in 
honor. ' ' 

They  were  in  the  library  of  Godfrey  Belton's  pretty 
seaside  villa,  embowered  in  woodlands,  not  far  from  St. 
Ann's,  whither  he  resorted  nearly  every  Saturday  to 
take  refuge  from  the  turmoil  of  business  cares  and  re- 
fresh himself  with  family  life,  with  the  beauty  and  peace 
of  nature  and  interest  of  country  things.  Through  the 
windows  they  could  see  sunlight  sleeping  upon  grassy 
slopes,  lighting  the  brown  branchings  of  leafless  trees 
and  dark  fir-tops  and  playing  on  the  armored  bulk  of  a 
great  warship  steaming  by  and  leaving  a  snowy  furrow 
behind  her  on  a  gray-green  sea,  that  was  sometimes 
blue  and  sometimes  burnished  silver  in  the  wintry  sun- 
shine. 

"The  navy,'"'  said  Mr.  Belton,  thoughtfully  poising 
a  paper-knife  on  his  forefinger,  "is  scarcely  the  profes- 
sion of  a  poor  man.  It  is  a  profession  that  presupposes 
good  connections  and  affluent  circumstances.  There  is, 
to  use  a  colloquialism,  no  money  in  the  navy." 

' '  Certainly  not.  There  is  only  honor, ' '  Richard  said 
with  an  accent  that  implied  antagonism  between  the  two. 
"My  father  was  a  sailor,  but  he  was  not  rich,  and  prob- 
ably never  wanted  to  be." 

"I  have  always  grudged  you  to  the  navy,"  continued 
the  old  man,  absently  following  the  great  war-ship,  throb- 
bing along  the  gray  sea-path  toward  the  grim  black  forts 
that  showed  iron  teeth  above  the  distant  waves.  ' '  Your 
talents  are  wasted  there.  It  is  a  pity  they  should  lie,  as 


"I  WILL   ARISE"  14? 

it  were,  idle.  You  have  remarkable  business  faculties. 
You  might  achieve  great  wealth." 

' '  Any  one  might  get  rich.  I  suppose ;  I  never  gave  it 
a  thought.  The  life  of  a  sailor  for  me, ' '  he  said,  his  eyes 
following  the  vessel's  foam-furrow,  his  ear  pleased  by 
the  faint  rhythm  of  her  engines. 

' '  Leave  the  navy  and  acquire  wealth, ' '  said  Mr.  Bel- 
ton,  with  a  sudden  and  uncharacteristic  brevity  that 
startled  Richard 's  gaze  from  the  gulls  hovering  about  the 
vessel,  their  wings  silver-white  against  her  black  hulk, 
and  bent  it  upon  the  banker,  whose  lined  and  composed 
features  and  quiet,  intelligent  eye  seemed  to  express  the 
quintessence  of  all  that  is  respectable  and  unexception- 
able in  mind  and  morals  and  manners,  and  whose  crown 
of  thin,  silvery  hair  claimed  a  veneration  he  amply  jus- 
tified. ' '  To  acquire  wealth,  though  not  the  first  duty  of 
man,  may  on  occasion  become  so." 

"Leave  the  service?"  cried  Richard.  ''I'd  as  soon 
leave  my  life  and  a  precious  deal  sooner.  As  for  getting 
on  in  life —  Why  I've  been  lucky  in  the  service  I've 
seen,  and  stand  well  for  promotion.  You're  joking,  sir." 

' '  On  the  contrary, ' '  was  the  austere  rejoinder.  ' '  This 
is  no  theme  for  jest.  I  have  seen  much  of  you  in  late 
years  and  watched  your  unfolding  capacity  with  pro- 
found and  increasing  interest.  I  have  discovered  in  you 
an  aptitude  for  business  that  has  greatly  surprised  me; 
and,  during  the  monetary  transactions  in  connection  with 
the  factory  you  have  established  here,  have  discovered  in 
you  the  instinct,  for  it  is  nothing  less,  for  commercial 
success — that  curious  and  not  usual  power  of  divining 
what  will  suit  the  wants  of  the  public,  which  almost  en- 
ables a  man  to  create  a  market — together  with  great 
readiness  in  adapting  means  to  ends,  which  is  a  quality 
necessary  to  all  successful  enterprise.  You  are  no  mere 
theorist,  no  mere  thinker;  you  are  an  eminently  practi- 
cal man ;  you  are  enterprising  but  not  rash ;  you  have  that 
form  of  courage  which  decides  in  a  moment  before  op- 
portunity slips  away;  you  possess  foresight  and  are  not 


148  RICHARD   ROSNY 

without  caution.  You  are  fertile  in  expedient  and  too 
tenacious  of  purpose  to  be  easily  discouraged ;  you  have 
a  singular  grasp  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  finance ; 
you  appear  to  have  that  sense  of  honor  in  commercial 
matters  which  is  sometimes  wanting  in  men  whose  sense 
of  honor  is  otherwise  keen.  You  know  how  to  handle  and 
control  men,  as  I  have  observed  in  your  dealings  with 
your  mill  hands,  and  the  man  you  have  so  judiciously  se- 
lected as  their  manager.  All  these  qualities  make  for 
success.  Besides  these,  your  mechanical  ingenuity  is 
considerable;  you  have  invented  things  of  great  practi- 
cal value  to  the  general  public ;  patent  them  and  manu- 
facture them." 

"I  must  be  dreaming,"  Richard  said,  "unless  you 
are.  But  to  speak  seriously,  Mr.  Belton,  I  should  be  a 
fool  to  throw  up  my  good  prospects  and  certainty  in  the 
navy  to  begin  at  the  beginning  of  a  mercantile  or  manu- 
facturing life,  even  if  I  had  all  the  fine  things  you  are 
good  enough  to  say  I  have." 

1 '  But  I  offer  you  a  certainty, ' '  proceeded  Mr.  Belton 
firmly;  "Belton,  Laking  &  Co.  require  new  blood,  new 
energy  and  new  enterprise  to  develop  the  possibilities  I 
see  before  it  as  a  widening  provincial  business  in  locali- 
ties with  centers  of  rapidly  thickening  population.  You 
are  the  man  to  develop  a  large  business.  As  I  was  say- 
ing, I  have  watched  you  narrowly,  struck  by  the  remark- 
able though  undeveloped  powers — in  course  of  con- 
versation with  you,  and  especially  in  course  of  conversa- 
tion touching  the  factory  our  firm  helped  you  to  finance — 
of  which  I  perceived  you  to  be  possessed.  The  successful 
man  of  business,  like  the  poet,  is  born  and  not  made ;  no 
training  can  develop  these  unusual  faculties  unless  they 
are  inborn.  You  are  the  fortunate  possessor  of  these 
gifts.  I  have  long  desired  to  bring  your  talents  and 
capabilities  to  the  rescue  of  our  firm.  I  now  propose  to 
do  so." 

"But  how?"  exclaimed  Rosny.  "Do  you  expect  me 
to  take  the  rudder  and  steer  the  firm  through  all  her  dif- 


"I   WILL   ARISE"  149 

ficulties  by  the  light  of  mother- wit?  I  don't  know  the 
ropes;  I  don't  know  the  chart.  I  couldn't  sit  at  a  desk 
if  I  did.  I'm  an  open-air  man,  never  at  home  ashore, 
always  at  sea." 

' '  I  propose  to  give  you  a  desk  in  our  house  and  a  sal- 
ary considerably  larger  than  your  lieutenant's  pay  for 
a  year,  Eosny.  By  the  end  of  that  time  you  will  have 
mastered  all  technical  details  and  become  familiar  with 
the  practical  working  of  every  species  of  transaction  in 
which  banks  like  ours  are  engaged. ' ' 

"At  the  end  of  that  time,  sir,  I  should  be  dead  for 
want  of  air  and  exercise.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  good  opinion  all  the  same.  But  I'm  a  plain  sailor 
and  don 't  want  to  be  rich,  even  if  I  could. ' ' 

' '  And  the  seven  children  ?  And  your  mother  ?  How 
are  they  to  be  provided  for  ? ' ' 

His  face  fell  and  his  eyes  darkened.  The  battle-ship 
had  throbbed  herself  out  of  sight,  leaving  a  faint,  milky 
trail  on  the  wrinkled  blue-gray  plain;  other  vessels 
showed  in  the  offing;  a  great  black  East  Indiaman,  a 
shining  white  troop-ship,  a  few  skimming  yachts  with  sil- 
very wings  outspread  in  the  sun-glow. 

"You  propose  to  withdraw  your  support,  then?"  he 
asked  faintly. 

"I  might  justly  do  so,  or  at  least  withdraw  a  part  of 
it,  Richard.  But  my  support,  which,  as  I  recently  hinted, 
is  both  precarious  and  a  heavy  strain  on  an  already  heav- 
ily taxed  income,  has  never  been  munificent,  and  is  quite 
unequal  to  placing  four  youths  out  in  the  world  in  a  man- 
ner befitting  their  station,  in  addition  to  providing  por- 
tions for  three  young  women.  In  these  days  penniless 
girls  are  not  sought  in  marriage,"  Mr.  Belton  said,  fixing 
his  gaze  upon  the  handsome,  clean-shaven  face,  that  grew 
more  and  more  somber  under  his  words. 

"You  have  been  most  generous,"  Richard  said  with 
a  sigh;  "it  is  my  turn  to  put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel 
now.  I  might  try  for  a  paying  berth ;  and  I  might  sink 
capital  to  help  educate  the  youngsters.  Something  must 


150  RICHARD   ROSNY 

be  done.  But  I  can't  be  a  banker.  I'm  not  built  on 
those  lines,  Mr.  Belton.  I  should  only  make  a  mess  of  it. ' ' 

"You  are  still  unconscious  of  your  own  strength, 
Rosny. — That  surely  is  the  luncheon-bell. — Reflect  upon 
what  we  have  been  discussing  at  your  leisure.  And,  if 
inclined  to  think  me  ungenerous  in  alluding  to  the  de- 
pendence of  my  nephew's  children  upon  my  resources, 
recall  to  mind  the  large  debts  of  that  nephew  to  the  firm 
and  the  very  serious  injuries  his  nefarious  transactions 
have  inflicted  upon  what,  other  considerations  apart,  is 
the  sole  source  of  my  income.  The  children  will  never 
know  of  those  injuries,  they  can  never  even  be  aware  of 
debts  that  they  could  in  no  case  ever  repay,  even  were 
they  so  minded.  No,  we  require  a  strong  man,  a  young 
and  bold  man,  such  a  man  as  yourself,  to  put  new 
blood  into  us  and  repair  the  injuries  Horace  inflicted 
upon  us. ' ' 

Mr.  Belton  rose  at  the  conclusion  of  his  speech,  and, 
with  an  air  of  finality  that  seemed  to  stamp  its  fulfilment, 
turned  and  walked  to  the  window  with  a  sweeping  glance 
round  the  horizon  of  hill-slope  and  sea-belt,  across  which 
a  white  puff  of  smoke  suddenly  rolled  from  a  flash  that 
•was  followed  by  the  reverberating  boom  of  a  heavy  gun, 
the  sound  of  which  shook  the  house-walls  and  gave  the 
windows  a  shiver.  Richard  sat  silent,  his  gaze  seaward, 
his  strong  and  beautiful  face  marble  with  thought,  his 
brown  hands  tightly  clenched,  his  body  still  in  every 
muscle.  A  second  gun  boomed  heavily  over  the  sea,  the 
sound  scattering  and  dying  away  in  multiplied  reverber- 
ations as  before,  then  a  third  and  a  fourth.  The  meas- 
ured thunder-bolts  sounded  through  his  heart  like  min- 
ute-guns proclaiming  the  death  of  his  life;  the  sunny 
sea  darkened  and  eddied  away  from  his  fixed  gaze;  his 
heart  throbbed  with  deep,  slow  beats,  like  answering 
minute-guns;  he  could  not  hear  the  words  spoken  near 
him;  his  thoughts  were  far. 

Mr.  Belton  forbore  to  repeat  his  unheard  sentence, 
and  sought  instead  to  read  the  fixed,  stern  face,  beautiful 


"I  WILL   ARISE"  151 

in  its  masculine  strength  and  energy,  broad  of  brow,  firm 
of  lip,  and  square  of  jaw,  unconscious  and  immovable  be- 
fore him. 

Presently  the  marble  melted  into  life,  the  full  lips 
moved,  the  breath  was  deeply  drawn,  and  the  dark  blue 
eyes,  hazed  and  somber,  were  raised  with  a  penetrating 
gaze  to  the  old  man's  face.  ''The  drift  seems  to  be  that 
somebody  must  put  poor  Belton's  account  square,"  he 
said.  ' '  Heaven  knows  I  would  do  it  if  I  could. — Thanks ; 
I'm  afraid  I  mustn't  stay  to  luncheon.  I  shall  just  catch 
the  two  o  'clock  train.  So  good-by. ' ' 

All  the  breezy  sunny  mile  within  sight  of  the  sea  to 
the  station,  the  minute-guns  boomed  on  in  his  heart,  while 
he  walked  with  a  firm  and  rapid  step  and  bent  brows, 
pondering  many  things,  but  chiefly  pondering  on  the 
miserable  history  of  the  man  he  had  so  bitterly  hated. 
The  loneliness  of  that  secret  consciousness  of  ill-doing,  the 
degradation  and  suffering  of  the  life,  unsuspected  by  all 
around  him,  appealed  very  keenly  to  him.  Did  poor 
Edith  suspect?  That  she  could  be  reticent  on  some 
points  he  was  well  aware.  How  well  she  had  kept  the 
ugly  secret  of  the  violence!  Alone  with  evil  memories, 
with  shattered  honor  and  lost  self-respect  and  ruined 
prospects,  without  hope,  with  dread  or  dislike  of  him  writ- 
ten on  the  faces  of  all  around,  fast  caught  in  the  grip  of 
at  least  one  insidious  vice,  what  a  misery,  what  a  desola- 
tion, the  man's  life  must  have  been,  and  how  welcome 
the  forgetfulness  he  sought  in  those  deadly  opiates !  But 
the  cause  of  his  downfall,  the  first  propulsion  toward  the 
moral  suicide — what  must  that  have  been?  Something 
deeper  and  more  poisonous  surely  than  even  the  indul- 
gence of  a  selfish  and  intemperate  love  of  pleasure.  Some 
deep  disappointment,  some  ever-present  anguish?  Yet 
he  was  weak  and  shallow,  and  wanting  even  in  natural 
affection.  What  was  to  become  of  those  seven,  and  of 
the  wife  he  had  made  so  wretched  and  who  mourned  him 
so  immeasurably?  Ah!  but  did  she?  Was  there  not  a 
false  note  in  the  threnody  that  fell  with  such  irritating 


152  RICHARD   ROSNY 

and  wearying  iteration  upon  his  ear?  "Methinks  the 
lady  doth  protest  too  much. ' ' 

Tangled  wilderness  of  a  world,  incomprehensible, 
dark  and  without  guide,  yet  with  one  sweet  and  sunny 
spot  in  it;  gladdened  and  glorified  by  a  woman's  smile 
and  a  voice.  He  must  see  Kitty  forthwith,  Sunday  or  no 
Sunday,  and  take  comfort  and  counsel  with  her.  She 
was  no  shallow  butterfly  beauty,  but  good  and  true  and 
thoughtful  beyond  her  years.  To  love  a  good  woman  is 
a  redemption  in  itself. 

Gatrell  was  leaning  over  his  little  garden-gate  when 
Rosny  went  past  the  Pines  on  his  way  to  Ingrestone 
House  and  passed  him  the  time  of  day  as  he  came  by.  At 
the  sight  of  the  gardener  a  sudden  thought,  a  momentary 
fear,  struck  cold  to  Rosny 's  heart  and  was  brushed 
quickly  away ;  then  darting  a  penetrating  glance  at  him, 
he  discovered  nothing  but  the  old  wooden  immobility 
that  had  been  the  mask  of  so  much  kindness  and  affection 
toward  the  boy  who  had  grown  into  manhood  as  first 
favorite  at  the  cottage. 

"You  be  gwine  wrong,  Master  Rosny,"  the  gardener 
said. 

' '  How  so  ? "  he  asked  with  a  little  start. 

''Gone  to  Sunday-school.  Zeen  her  go  down  along 
just  now.  'Taint  often  she  misses  school,  hrain  or  shine. ' ' 

"Confound  the  school,  I'd  forgotten,"  he  muttered, 
pulling  out  a  tobacco  pouch  and  offering  it.  '  *  Well,  I  've 
lost  a  good  dinner  for  nothing.  Don't  you  think  she's 
worth  losing  a  good  dinner  for,  Gatrell  ? ' ' 

' '  That 's  as  may  be,  Master  Rosny.  I  allows  a  good 
dinner's  a  good  thing.  But  a  young  ooman  like  to  she 
you've  cast  your  eye  upon  is  better  than  meat  and  drink. 
You  shewed  sense  when  ee  looked  that  way.  She'll  kape 
ee  straight  and  make  a  man  of  ee. ' ' 

"If  I  ever  get  her,"  he  sighed  between  his  pipe  puffs. 

' '  A  single  life  is  bad  vor  ee.  A  wild  un  you  've  been. 
Time  you  steadied  down  into  a  vamly  man ! ' ' 

"That's  what  I  am,  Gatrell;  I've  seven  brothers  and 


"I  WILL   ARISE"  153 

sisters  to  look  after  already.  Good-by,  old  hearty.  Love 
to  Deborah." 

People  were  streaming  along  the  country  ways  in 
orderly  peace  to  afternoon  church,  whither  Rosny  fol- 
lowed them,  lingering  behind  a  little,  lest  he  should  miss 
the  face  that  drew  his  heart  after  it.  Going  into  the 
churchyard,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  new-made  grave 
heaped  with  fading  wreaths ;  a  great  pang,  hi  which  pity 
had  a  large  part,  smote  him,  as  he  raised  his  hat  in  pass- 
ing it.  Perhaps  the  pain  was  written  on  his  face,  for 
the  sight  of  it  startled  Kitty,  who  came  along  the  path 
and  went  by  him  just  as  he  turned  and  met  her  gaze  with 
an  instant  brightening.  Nothing  but  a  nod  and  a  smile 
passed  between  them  before  they  vanished  side  by  side 
in  the  solemn  dimness  of  the  church,  through  which 
throbbed  the  deep  boom  of  organ  music,  leading  on  to 
the  sentences  telling  of  pardon  and  contrition,  worn  al- 
most meaningless  by  repetition,  yet  to-day  flashing  with 
sudden  significance,  like  magic  writing  unriddled.  "I 
will  arise  and  go  to  my  Father, ' '  etc. 

Only  Kathleen  occupied  the  Musgrave  pew,  with 
Rosny  at  her  side  unasked,  sharing  her  hymn-book  and 
tasting  again  the  old  childish  peace  and  safety  he  re- 
membered in  the  sacred  stillness  of  church  by  his  moth- 
er's side  as  a  little  innocent  boy,  wide-eyed  and  sunny- 
headed.  It  would  be  sweet,  he  thought,  and  very  restful, 
to  be  a  child  again. 

Only  so,  he  heard  in  the  Gospel  reading,  could  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven  be  entered.  But  a  little  child  has  no 
memories  and  no  regrets. 

"Don't  go  in,  Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  he  besought 
when  they  reached  her  gate  in  the  frosty  twilight  that 
was  fragrant  of  the  breath  of  earth.  ' '  You  are  my  ano- 
dyne and  I  want  you. ' ' 

' '  Poor  boy ! ' '  she  smiled,  after  the  story  had  been  told 
and  discussed  in  the  shadowy  lane  that  led  to  the  downs. 
"You  must  not  take  things  so  much  to  heart.  You  used 
to  be  hard  on  poor  Mr.  Belton." 


154  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"I  was  a  beast,  and  I'm  sorry.  How  long  will  you 
wait  for  me,  Kathleen? — ought  I  to  ask  you?  I'm  not 
sure.  But  you  are  my  rock  of  safety,  dear,  and  I  am  like 
to  drown." 

"My  dear  Lion  Heart,  I  will  wait  till  things  are 
brighter.  You  are  out  of  sorts,  Eichie,  unlike  yourself. 
Things  are  not  half  so  bad  as  you  think.  And  they'll 
mend.  And  I'm  sure  that  you  need  not  give  up  the 
service.  Don't  do  anything  in  a  hurry.  And  we  really 
must  turn  back  and  go  in  to  tea  now.  Now  be  good  and 
reasonable  and  trust,  and,  remember,  I  will  never  give 
you  up." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE   DARK  HOUR  BEFORE   THE  DAWN 

THE  peace  and  order  now  reigning  at  the  Pines  seemed 
unnatural,  and  struck  Rosny  sharply  when  he  went 
home  on  that  Sunday  evening  and  found  the  four  younger 
children  ranged  round  the  drawing-room  fire  listening  to 
a  story.  They  went  off  to  bed  at  a  word  and  he  began 
at  once  to  discuss  family  matters. 

' '  These  sordid  considerations  jar  so  sadly, ' '  Mrs.  Bel- 
ton  said.  "Couldn't  we  defer  them  till  you  come  ashore 
again,  Richard?" 

' '  I  may  never  come  ashore  again,  mother, ' '  he  replied, 
with  a  seriousness  that  roused  her  to  attention.  ' '  I  want 
to  see  your  affairs  settled  before  I  come  again.  And  I 
don't  like  to  leave  you  among  these  painful  associations. 
You  will  never  be  happy  here.  My  tenant  leaves  the 
cottage  at  Lady  Day.  Why  not  go  there?" 

"Leave  home?  Go  back  to  Wimbury?  How  ab- 
surdly unpractical  of  you,  dearest  Richard.  How  like 
a  man  to  think  of  packing  such  a  family  as  ours  in  that 
tiny  nest.  And  to  leave  the  home  of  my  whole  married 
life  for  a  cottage  we  could  not  possibly  crowd  into. ' ' 

' '  Poor  people  are  obliged  to  live  in  small  houses.  Of 
course,  these  sordid  considerations  are  unpleasant;  but 
what  is  more  unpleasant  is,  that  there  is  nothing  for  the 
children,  absolutely  nothing,  or  for  you  either.  There  is 
no  will." 

"No  will?  Then  I  must  certainly  have  my  widow's 
thirds, ' '  she  returned  with  an  energy  that  surprised  him. 
"He  can  not  have  willed  things  away  from  us." 

"He  had  nothing  to  will,  Muff.  This  house  is  mort- 

155 


156  RICHARD    ROSNY 

gaged  to  its  full  value,  so  is  Ingrestone.  The  partner- 
ship was  dissolved  years  ago.  Poor  Mr.  Belton  seems  to 
have  been  for  years  in  great  difficulties.  Godfrey  says 
that  he  was  not  a  man  of  business.  He  has  promised  to 
do  what  he  can  for  the  children,  but  it  can  not  be  much. 
I  will  do  what  is  in  my  power,  but  that  will  be  even  less, 
I  fear." 

' '  I  can  not  believe  this,  Richard,  I  really  can  not, ' '  the 
poor  woman  cried,  rising  from  her  low  chair  and  moving 
distractedly  about.  "My  troubles  appear  to  have  no 
end.  There  seems  to  be  no  peace  anywhere  on  earth  for 
me.  For  Horace's  debts  I  was  prepared.  Nothing  but 
compulsion  ever  made  him  pay  anything.  He  seemed  to 
have  a  rooted  and  unconquerable  dislike  to  parting  with 
money  on  any  terms  whatever.  But  for  his  insolvency? 
Richard,  there  must  be  some  mistake.  Uncle  Godfrey 
must  be  misinformed.  It  is  shameful  of  him  to  think  of 
deserting  those  poor  orphans  now.  In  any  case,  Horace 
must  have  claims  on  the  bank. ' ' 

' '  Best  face  it,  mother.  The  bank  has  claims  on  him. 
All  you  can  depend  upon  is  your  settlement.  Cheer  up. 
The  boys  may  get  scholarships.  I'll  do  what  I  can." 

"Oh!  my  poor  boy!     And  your  marriage?" 

"Kitty  will  wait.  She's  true  blue.  Things  may 
mend,"  he  added  quickly.  "Only  for  Heaven's  sake 
let's  face  the  worst." 

"No,  Richard,"  she  replied  with  unexpected  de- 
cision, "Kitty  must  not  wait — not  longer  than  a  year, 
or  at  most  two.  Your  happiness  must  not  be  sacrificed. 
It  would  be  the  height  of  injustice.  My  dear,  dear 
boy!" 

' '  Think  it  over, ' '  he  said,  letting  her  sink  weeping  into 
his  arms.  "Let's  stand  by  one  another  and  do  the  best 
we  can.  And  whatever  you  do,  for  any  sake,  don't  re- 
proach Godfrey  Belton.  He's  better  than  you  think. 
There  is  no  claim  whatever  on  Laking  or  any  of  the  Co.  's. 
With  Godfrey  it  is  a  family  matter,  nothing  more.  I  un- 
happy? Don't  you  believe  it,  Muff.  With  the  nicest 


DARK   HOUR   BEFORE   DAWN     157 

girl  in  the  world  waiting  for  me  ?  I  hope  I  'm  not  such 
an  ass." 

But  in  the  end  Mrs.  Belton  was  guaranteed  the  ten- 
ancy of  the  Pines  rent  free  for  two  years  on  certain  con- 
ditions. All  was  put  in  order  without  and  within;  Bel- 
ton's  creditors  were  appeased  for  a  time.  His  effects 
were  sold  for  their  benefit  and  produced  a  considerable 
sum,  owing  to  his  having  collected  a  few  priceless  curios 
and  rare  books  among  the  mass  of  rubbish  that  encum- 
bered the  house. 

Before  Easter  the  Pines  presented  a  forlornly  clean 
and  outswept  appearance.  The  picturesque  of  weath- 
ered paint  and  overgrown  creeper  was  lost,  and  the  star- 
ing freshness  of  new  paint  and  paper  within  emphasized 
by  extreme  scantiness  of  furniture,  there  being,  as  Mrs. 
Belton  bitterly  observed,  scarcely  a  chair  apiece  for  them, 
but  all  the  more  room  to  make  a  row  in,  as  Gerald 
thoughtfully  added. 

"And  I  hope  he  will  make  a  row,"  Mrs.  Musgrave 
commented.  ' '  It  was  piteous  to  see  the  boy  so  cowed 
and  unboylike. ' ' 

"He's  all  right,"  her  husband  returned.  "His 
mother  would  have  driven  him  out  of  his  wits.  It's  a 
bad  business  for  Kit,  though.  I'm  glad  she  stands  to 
her  colors,  though  I  hate  long  engagements.  Rosny  is 
straight  enough;  he  knew  nothing  of  Belton 's  affairs. 
But  I  never  saw  a  man  so  completely  bowled  over.  In  a 
way,  it  has  done  him  good,  steadied  him ;  still,  I  wish  Bel- 
ton  could  have  contrived  to  make  his  exit  three  months 
earlier.  Then  there  would  have  been  no  engagement." 

"Then  I'm  glad  the  poor  man  lived.  For  I'm  more 
and  more  convinced  that  Richard  has  the  sound  qualities 
that  make  a  happy  home.  How  is  he  to  help  those  chil- 
dren? That  I  can  not  tell.  But  I  can  tell  that  he  is 
well  worth  waiting  for." 

They  were  going  round  the  flower-borders  in  the 
spring  sunshine,  watching  the  general  burgeoning  of 
stem  and  bough  and  welcoming  the  return  of  old  friends 
11 


158  RICHARD    ROSNY 

with  the  joyous  surprise  these  expected  returns  never  fail 
to  bring — daffodils  standing  on  guard  with  lifted  spears 
— as  if  daffodils  had  never  stood  thus,  with  fluttering  yel- 
low pennons,  before ;  wall-flowers  shedding  delicate  scent ; 
plum-trees  veiled  in  bridal  white;  peach  all  ablush,  and 
pear  and  cherry  budded  and  panting  to  burst  into  bloom ; 
with  these  the  pungency  of  flowering  currant  and  fresh 
breath  of  primrose  and  violet,  all  so  exquisitely  novel, 
though  so  rich  in  association.  In  their  happiness  there 
were  alternations  of  pleasure  and  disappointment,  as  this 
old  friend  appeared  or  the  other  was  missing,  when  the 
Belton  affairs  suddenly  turned  up  among  the  anemones 
and  auriculas. 

' '  Still  Kitten  is  scarcely  as  chirpy  as  she  was, ' '  Colo- 
nel Musgrave  interpolated  in  a  chant  of  ecstasy  over  a 
blaze  of  crocus  on  a  grassy  bank.  "  If  I  'm  not  mistaken, 
she  was  crying  this  morning,  yet  she  had  the  usual  naval 
despatch. ' ' 

''Dear  Harold,  I'm  afraid  she  was.  This  waiting  is 
trying,  and  she  takes  the  Belton  troubles  so  seriously. 
Our  poor  Kitten  is  emerging  from  kittenhood  at  last. 
After  all,  these  contrarieties  are  wholesome  and  stimu- 
lating ;  they  will  test  and  strengthen  both  her  character 
and  her  attachment  to  Richard.  Here  she  comes — ah,  the 
white  clematis  is  nearly  out. ' ' 

"But  I  don't  want  her  turned  into  an  old  cat  yet," 
he  said,  and  there  was  Kathleen  herself  stepping  sedately 
in  the  shadows  of  leafless  boughs  over  the  turf,  gloved 
and  hatted  and  daintily  dressed.  ' '  Where  are  you  going 
to,  my  pretty  maid  ? ' ' 

11  Not  going  a  milking,  sir,  she  said,"  was  the  gay  but 
rather  forced  reply.  "I  thought  you  were  both  out  for 
the  afternoon,"  she  added. 

' '  This  looks  dark,  Kit.  What  are  you  up  to,  eh  ?  Go- 
ing to  make  a  bolt  of  it  ?  It 's  true  that  your  mother  has 
requisitioned  me  for  the  afternoon.  She's  on  fatigue 
duty.  We  are  just  off.  I  hope  we  are  not  in  the  way, 
my  dear.  Parents  will  be  troublesome  sometimes." 


DARK   HOUR   BEFORE   DAWN     159 

"Well— I— I— didn't  I  tell  you?"  she  stammered, 
prodding  the  turf  with  her  sunshade.  "Perhaps  I  for- 
got to  mention  that  Richard  is  coming  to-day.  I  am  to 
meet  him  on  the  downs  this  afternoon  to  save  time,  be- 
cause— because  he  wants  a  quiet  talk — but  not  with  his 
mother. ' ' 

''That  is  quite  conceivable  under  the  circumstances, 
Kit.  I  have  known  instances  myself  in  which  men 
wanted  quiet  talks — but  not,  as  you  so  pointedly  observe, 
with  their  mother.  Bless  the  child,  what's  the  matter? 
There,  there,  be  off  with  you,  pussie.  Don 't  keep  a  good 
fellow  waiting." 

"My  love  to  him,  and  will  he  dine  here  to-night?" 
Mrs.  Musgrave  called  to  Kitty,  who  nodded  in  reply 
before  vanishing  among  the  shrubs. 

"What  on  earth  has  come  to  the  girl?"  her  father 
asked.  "Mystery  and  confusion  and  evasion,  and  Kit 
always  so  straight.  One  would  think  she  was  going  to 
meet  somebody  else's  sweetheart." 

' '  Poor  little  Kit ;  she 's  not  quite  herself.  There  has 
been  some  little  tiff — it  all  seems  so  heart-breaking  at  that 
age — and  Dick  is  for  making  it  up,  I  suppose.  But  she 
means  to  stand  on  her  dignity  and  is  divinely  wretched. 
She  will  tell  him  they  must  part.  He  will  ask  her  not  to 
break  his  heart  into  more  pieces  than  she  can  help.  He'll 
dine  with  us  to-night.  Cook  shall  send  up  his  favorite 
entree,  and  we  shall  be  bored  to  death,  and  neither  of  them 
will  have  ears  or  eyes  for  any  one  but  each  other." 

"That's  part  of  the  game.  Amantium  irce.  After  all, 
I  like  having  the  Kitten  at  home  a  little  longer.  She 
isn't  a  bad  little  maid.  Eh?  What's  that  about  sea- 
kale  pots  1 ' ' 

Kitty  stepped  briskly  between  the  budding  hedges, 
graceful  and  sweet  in  her  pale-gray  costume,  and  turned 
up  the  lane  that  led  to  the  downs.  It  was  overshadowed 
by  hedges  and  starred  along  its  banks  by  primroses,  with 
here  and  there  the  delicate  sea-shell  petals  of  wind- 
flowers,  and  here  and  there  sheets  of  emerald  leaves 


160  RICHARD    ROSNY 

pearled  with  sweet  white  violets,  some  of  which  she  gath- 
ered and  wore.  It  was  one  of  those  joyous  spring  days 
in  which  everything  has  a  double  vitality  in  the  general 
outbreaking  of  renewed  life;  you  could  almost  see  the 
leaf-buds  swell  on  bare  stems  and  the  primroses  open  in 
a  sort  of  divine  ecstasy  of  haste.  Fleecy  white  clouds 
sailed  high  across  a  clear  blue  heaven,  a  pure  live  breeze 
sighed  through  grasses  and  sang  in  trees,  larks  shot  up  on 
spires  of  mad  music,  the  lulling  coo-coo  of  pigeons  floated 
up  from  rich  brown  woodlands,  where  nuthatch  and 
woodpecker  were  busy  at  their  carpentry;  far  off  the 
mocking  cry  of  the  cuckoo  was  heard. 

Kitty  paused  and  sighed  in  all  the  sweetness,  her 
pensive  glance  wandered  over  village  and  homestead  and 
across  the  marshy  meadows  to  the  long  band  of  blue,  soft 
sea,  flanked  by  steep  cliffs  on  either  hand  and  returned 
to  light  on  the  blue-green  tops  of  the  Ingrestone  pine- 
trees,  the  sight  of  which  sent  a  little  shiver  through  her. 
How  bright  the  world  seemed,  basking  in  warm  light; 
those  sun-lit  spires  by  sea  and  hill,  those  brown  fallows, 
vivid  green  meadows  and  soft  turf  slopes,  those  cluster- 
ing roofs  and  faint  smoke  wreaths  marking  town  and  vil- 
lage, hamlet  and  homestead,  how  gay!  Yonder  a  team 
was  plowing  with  sounds  of  clinking  gear,  men's  voices 
and  cracking  of  whips;  the  scent  of  fresh-turned  mold 
mingled  with  the  odor  of  primrose  and  violet  and  crushed 
turf ;  there  a  harrow  clinked  over  the  furrowed  soil ;  here 
sheep  nibbled  peacefully  on  gray  slopes  brightening  in 
sunlight ;  yonder  the  dark  hull  of  a  steamer  crawled  be- 
neath a  smoke  trail  on  the  still  sea,  where  yachts  flitted 
winged  with  light ;  here  and  there  larches  gleamed  green 
from  brown  masses  of  plantation ;  orchards  whitened  and 
sloe-bloom  glimmered  on  hedge  and  thicket;  everywhere 
in  shining  multitudes  were  daisies.  Such  a  day  speaks 
of  bounteous  promise  and  exquisite  possibility,  yet  it  is 
sad  with  the  evanescence  of  first  things  and  the  fragility 
of  youth. 

Kathleen  stopped  by  a  gate  in  the  hedge,  her  feet  sunk 


DARK   HOUR   BEFORE   DAWN     161 

in  daisies,  and  looked  back  over  the  familiar  fields  and 
hills ;  her  lips  tense,  her  brows  drawn  in  a  frown,  her  eyes 
a  little  hard. 

There  below  her  was  the  miniature  bell-tower  of  Ingre- 
stone  Church,  its  base  muffled  in  trees.  There,  only  last 
autumn  she  had  first  seen  Richard.  Again  she  saw  his 
fine  head  towering  above  the  others,  outlined  on  the  altar 
frontal  and  framed  by  the  chancel  arch.  Again  she  saw 
him  turn,  his  eyes  lit  by  sudden  flame,  and  felt  the  kin- 
dling, wondering  gaze  go  through  her,  with  the  moving 
and  unquestionable  certainty  that  he  loved  her.  That 
beautiful  face,  transfigured  by  a  passion  more  beautiful 
still,  could  never  be  forgotten;  the  burning  gaze  had 
penetrated  too  deeply.  What  happiness,  what  proud 
and  tender  delight  had  been  hers  in  that  first  joyous  cer- 
tainty of  love ! 

But  life  was  hard  in  its  bitter  reality.  She  turned 
and  went  on.  Gatrell,  the  gardener,  was  coming  down 
the  lane  with  a  bundle  of  plants  over  his  shoulder  and 
touched  his  hat  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"Vine  growen'  weather,  miss;  sha'n't  I  carr  that 
passel  home  for  ee?"  he  said,  looking  at  a  sealed  brown 
paper  packet  she  held. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  am  taking  it — to  a  friend,"  she 
replied,  with  a  smiling  good-afternoon,  leaving  him 
planted  in  the  chalky  lane,  looking  after  her  with  loving 
admiration. 

"Aye,  Missie,"  he  thought,  "wold  Gatrell  knows 
where  you  be  gwaine  sure  enough.  Wold  chap's  sorry 
for  ee,  ter'ble  sorry.' 

The  lane  led  to  a  little  hollow  high  up  on  the  downs, 
a  miniature  combe,  whence  trees  and  coppice  feathered 
on  to  the  turf.  All  is  so  free,  wild  and  open  to  the  skies 
and  winds  on  the  down ;  there  is  such  austere  purity  in 
those  gray-green  undulations  and  sweeps  of  close  turf, 
where  everything  grows  without  rankness,  in  a  noble 
restraint  and  gallant  submission  to  harsh  wind-buffets 
and  scanty  diet,  that  results,  not  in  deformity,  but  a 


162  RICHARD    ROSNY 

hardy,  if  ascetic,  beauty.  Kitty's  heart  expanded  when 
she  pressed  the  deep,  elastic  turf  and  met  the  pure,  exhil- 
arating breath  of  the  breeze  that  sang  in  bent  and  furze, 
and  saw  a  stalwart  form  and  handsome  face  coming  to 
meet  her. 

''You  are  very  good  to  come,"  he  said;  "too  good. 
But  you  don't  know  the  comfort  of  speaking  out  with  that 
knowledge,  of  touching  one  human  hand — of  breaking  the 
awful  solitude " 

"Oh!  Richard,  please — "  she  broke  in,  with  a  faint 
sob;  "it  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

"Oh!  I'm  a  selfish  brute,  and  yet —  Come  into  the 
lee  under  the  ash,  Kathleen,  and  let  me  look  at  you  and  be 
near  you  for  five  minutes.  Shall  I  take —  Ah !  the  par- 
cel is  directed  to  me.  Then  I'm  afraid  it's  all  up,  my 
dear." 

' '  You  had  my  letter, ' '  she  said,  going  toward  the  ash- 
tree,  the  bare  gray  boughs  and  black  buds  of  which  were 
steeped  in  sunshine,  while  the  hollow  in  the  downs 
screened  it  from  the  winds.  Under  it  lay  a  felled  trunk 
all  braided  with  lichen  and  cushioned  with  velvety  moss, 
where  she  sat. 

"I  meant  what  I  said,"  she  added  in  a  cold,  clear 
voice. 

He  laid  the  packet  with  a  bunch  of  fresh  white  violets 
on  it  sadly  at  the  other  end  of  the  trunk,  and  stood  look- 
ing upon  her  in  silence,  with  an  expression  that  gave  her 
such  pain  and  fear  of  herself  that  she  turned  away. 

Then  suddenly  he  knelt  by  her  side.  ' '  Kathleen, ' '  he 
said,  ' '  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  ?  Do  you  know 
your  power?  Do  you  guess  my  need?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  faintly,  looking  not  at  him,  but  over 
the  woods  and  marshy  meadows  to  the  sea.  "I  have 
thought ;  I  know ;  and,  oh !  Richard,  I  can  not,  I  can  not 
do  otherwise.  This  is  the  only  right  thing. ' ' 

"  Oh !  it  is  very  right  and  just,  and  I  can  not  expect 
and  dare  scarcely  ask  anything  else,"  he  returned  in  a 
voice  that  rang  with  restrained  passion.  ' '  But,  my  dear, 


DARK   HOUR   BEFORE   DAWN     168 

my  better  self,  my  soul 's  soul,  think — oh !  you  can  not — 
yet  hear  what  you  might  do  with  me.  Give  me  one  ray 
of  hope  in  the  future.  Oh !  I  know  it  would  be  a  sacri- 
fice. But,  Kitty,  help  me,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  help 
me;  don't  let  go  of  a  drowning  man's  hand." 

"Dear  Richard,  how  can  I  help  you?  I  had  better 
not  have  come  to-day;  it  can  only  give  pain  to  us  both." 

' '  Is  there  no  comfort,  none  ?  All  this  afternoon  I  have 
been  wondering  if  I  had  done  right  to  speak  out. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  you  were  quite  right,  absolutely  right.  It  could 
not  have  been  otherwise.  And  I  am  so  sorry,  so  very 
sorry  for  you.  And  I  hope  and  pray  that  you  will  be 
happy. ' ' 

"Happy?  Happy!  Don't  mock  me,  Kitty.  How 
can  I  be  happy  ?  But  I  might  have  been  better.  I  might 
still  be  better,  if  you  could  but  stretch  out  a  hand  to  me, 
if  you  could  but  stand  by  me.  Dear,  you  are  my  sheet- 
anchor  ;  if  you  go,  I  must  drift  alone  into  some  awful  sea 
of  despair  and  darkness.  But,  of  course,  it  can  not  be. 
I  must  not  drag  you  down —  But,  oh !  the  pain,  the  im- 
possibility. Kathleen,  Kathleen,  we  two  were  one;  and, 
my  dearest,  you  loved  me,  you  did." 

He  was  still  kneeling,  shaken  with  dry  sobs ;  suddenly 
his  head  went  down  on  the  arms  he  flung  upon  the  mossy 
trunk  and  he  was  still,  golden  sunshine  raining  upon  him 
and  the  clear,  wild  joy  of  a  lark  showering  down  from  the 
dappled  sky  in  which  it  swam  and  circled.  She  turned 
white ;  she  pressed  her  young  red  lips  tight  together ;  and, 
stiffening  her  arms  on  either  side  of  her,  stayed  her  quiv- 
ering body  upright.  Her  delicate  face  was  set  in  a 
frown ;  she  looked  away  from  Richard  straight  before  her 
over  the  sunny  prospect,  like  one  struggling  with  physi- 
cal pain. 

"It  is  so  sad,  so  very  sad,"  she  said  presently.  "I 
am  so  sorry  for  you.  Oh !  I  wish  we  had  never,  never 
seen  each  other.  Say  no  more,  Richard.  You  are  cruel. 
I  suffer,  too,  you  forget  that." 

"No,  Kitty,  I  do  not  forget,"  he  said,  raising  his  head 


164  RICHARD   ROSNY 

and  speaking  slowly.  "That  makes  it  so  hard.  I  have 
come  into  your  life  only  to  trouble  it,  when  Heaven  knows 
— Kathleen,  Kathleen,  how  can  we  part  ?  Think  what  we 
have  been  to  each  other.  Think  of  those  first  days — 
those  walks — those  hours — our  letters.  Why,  I  have  held 
you  in  my  arms,  Kathleen ;  I  have  held  you  on  my  heart ; 
I  have  kissed  you,  kissed  you  on  the  mouth,  thought  of 
you  as  my  wife,  we  are  one.  How  can  we  part?  How 
can  any  other  man " 

"Oh!  Richard,  hush,"  she  cried,  rising  and  recoiling 
from  him  in  horror.  "You  don't  understand.  You 
ought  not  to  speak  so.  It  was  not  you  that  I  loved;  it 
was  a  man  so  different.  In  any  case,  I  must  have  found 
you  out.  I  might  have  gone  on  blindly  for  a  time,  if 
you  had  not  told  me  all;  but  now — now  my  eyes  are 
open. ' ' 

' '  You  can  not  bear  the  knowledge — it  is  too  much  for 
a  soul  so  white, ' '  he  said,  rising  and  standing  away  from 
the  fallen  tree;  "but,  oh!  my  dear,  I  have  repented.  I 
do  repent ;  you  have  made  another  man  of  me.  Is  there 
not  joy  even  in  heaven  over  repenting  sinners?" 

"Oh!  you  will  never  understand.  What  is  repent- 
ance? I  thought  you  could  never  have  done — what  you 
have  done.  Oh !  I  respect  you,  I  honor  your  penitence, ' ' 
she  added,  quickly  and  earnestly,  but  with  a  repulsion 
that  carried  conviction  like  a  knife  to  his  heart.  "But 
even  if  you  had  not  told  me,  we  could  never  have  been 
happy,  indeed,  indeed.  Oh !  Richard,  you — you  frighten 
me." 

Steadily,  unflinchingly,  but  with  a  sadness  that  made 
her  tremble,  he  looked  long  into  the  eyes  she  vainly  tried 
to  avert.  She  felt  his  height  and  strength  and  the  power 
of  his  presence  and  his  burning  gaze,  as  she  saw  him  out- 
lined upon  the  sunny  landscape,  his  head  backed  by  a  blue 
sky  with  a  fleecy  cloud  and  a  singing  lark  in  it,  and  was 
conscious  of  the  daisies  and  down-flowers  braiding  the 
turf  at  their  feet,  conscious  of  the  sad-colored  ash-tree 
and  warm  brown  copse  and  the  sallow  tree  in  a  cloud  of 


DARK   HOUR   BEFORE   DAWN     165 

golden,  bee-haunted  bloom.  He  was  only  conscious  of 
her  face. 

"I  understand,"  he  said  at  last,  with  quiet  despair. 
"It  is  good-by  forever.  Good-by,  then.  All  good  be 
with  you,  Kathleen,  forever. ' ' 

"Good-by,  Richard,"  she  replied  unsteadily,  her 
throat  tightening,  her  eyes  scalding.  She  held  out  a 
tremulous  hand,  he  pressed  it  warmly  but  not  unduly. 
Then  she  turned  and  glided  swiftly  away  over  the  daisies 
and  turf  and  out  of  his  life,  looking  back  once,  to  see  him 
standing  in  the  same  position  in  the  sunshine  under  the 
ash-tree. 

When  she  was  gone,  he  turned  back  to  the  trunk  and 
sat  quite  still,  with  heavy,  dazed  eyes,  holding  the  parcel 
on  his  knee.  After  a  long  while  he  began  to  untie  it, 
knowing  very  well  what  it  held — his  own  letters  and  the 
engagement  ring  and  trifles  he  had  given  her. 

Suddenly  he  threw  it  unopened  aside  and  flung  him- 
self on  the  ground,  his  face  pressed  into  the  daisies,  where 
she  had  passed,  just  as  he  had  flung  himself  down  on  the 
cliff  at  Wimbury  on  his  mother's  wedding-day, and  sobbed 
as  he  had  sobbed  then,  with  the  same  violence  of  despair 
and  the  same  unreasoning  sense  of  betrayal  and  desertion. 
Again  in  memory  the  joy-bells  of  that  day  came  sweep- 
ing down  from  the  sky,  but  now  a  knell  beat  insistently 
through  the  merry  cadence,  a  knell  that  would  never 
cease.  In  that  first  great  shipwreck  there  was  still  hope. 
Then  the  joyous  row  over  the  leaping  waves  and  flying 
foam  to  the  lighthouse  had  unlocked  a  new  world  of  peril 
and  action  and  striving  to  him;  but  now  he  had  said 
good-by  to  the  sea  and  bound  himself  to  the  still  indoor 
toil  of  desk  and  pen.  The  good-by  had  been  said  on  that 
Sunday  afternoon,  when  he  went  with  Kitty  into  the  dim 
church  and  the  organ  music  hushed  and  the  words  "I 
will  arise  and  go  to  my  father"  rang  out.  In  that  first 
despair,  a  rough  laboring  lad  had  comforted  him  and 
pointed  to  him  a  better  and  manlier  life ;  to-day  he  was 
alone  and  uncomforted,  yet  perhaps  not  all  alone;  for 


166  RICHARD    ROSNY 

haply  one,  who  had  lived  in  a  cottage  and  worked  with 
his  hands,  may  have  stood  by  him  unseen,  and  bid  him 
arise  and  take  comfort  and  follow  a  better  and  manlier 
life  to  its  close. 

When,  at  last,  he  rose  and  turned  to  the  sea,  out- 
spread beyond  the  meadows,  dark-rimmed  but  glorious 
with  reflections  of  the  slowly  waning  afterglow,  above 
which  one  clear  planet  swung  in  a  primrose  sky  and  the 
mystery  of  night  was  gathering  in  solemn  stillness,  he 
took  his  solitary  way  down  into  the  darkness  with  a  great 
peace  in  his  heart. 


PART   II 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  BURDEN  AND  HEAT  OF  THE  DAT 

KITTY  MUSGEAVE  carried  home  a  heavy  heart  and  a 
wet  face  that  spring  afternoon  when  she  gave  the  ring 
and  letters  back  to  Richard  and  crushed  a  hope  out  of  two 
lives.  She  found  it  a  very  hard  task  to  explain  the  mat- 
ter to  her  father  and  mother.  His  circumstances  were 
totally  changed,  she  told  them;  he  had  left  the  service 
and  was  going  into  business  to  be  able  to  maintain  the  chil- 
dren. This  made  marriage  impossible  in  any  case  for 
years  to  come,  probably  forever;  therefore  the  engage- 
ment was  at  an  end. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  her  father  said,  "you  have  chosen 
the  wisest  course;  but — oh,  hang  it,  Kitty,  I  wish  you 
had  shown  a  little  more  folly.  I  can't  help  wishing  you 
had  waited  for  him,  or  at  least  wanted  to.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Kit,  you  won't  find  another  such  husband  as 
Dick  Rosny  in  many  a  long  day's  march,  and  I'm  sorry 
for  him.  After  all,  why  should  he  be  sacrificed  for  Bel- 
ton's  children?  I  wish  you'd  stood  by  the  poor  fellow 
and  kept  him  to  his  promise,  Kit,  though  I  suppose  I 
ought  not  to  say  it. ' ' 

Her  mother  was  sorry,  too.  "But  it  really  is  an  im- 
possible match,"  she  said.  "And  even  if  you  felt  that 
you  could  wait  ten  or  a  dozen  years  for  him,  Kitty,  it  is 
much  better  to  end  it  all  now. ' ' 

Kitty  burst  into  tears.  "Oh,"  she  said,  "it's  not 
only  that,  mother.  I  am  not  so  serf-seeking  and  worldly 
as  you  think,  but — Richard  is  not  what  I  thought  him. ' ' 

"Ah!  And  how  do  you  know  that?"  her  father 
asked.  ' '  I  hope  you  have  not  been  playing  fast  and  loose 

169 


170  RICHARD   ROSNY 

with  him.  It  is  not  Ronald  Musgrave,  I  hope.  That's 
a  poor  game  to  play,  a  dangerous  game ;  it  ends  in  burned 
fingers,  Kit." 

' '  He  told  me  what  his  life  had  been, ' '  she  replied  bit- 
terly, "and  I  knew  that  I  could  never  be  happy  with 
him." 

' '  There  you  are  wrong,  Kit,  for  he  is  straight  enough 
now.  He  should  not  have  told  you.  A  girl  of  your  age 
can't  be  expected  to  see  things  in  their  true  proportion. 
When  you  are  older  you  will  see  that  a  woman  must  be 
content  with  what  a  man  is,  and  not  bother  about  what 
he  has  been.  You  are  young,  Kitty,  and  well  out  of  it. 
But  don't  let  the  next  man  make  you  his  father 
confessor,  that's  all.  And  don't  let  the  next  man  be 
Ronald." 

' '  No  one  will  ever  understand, ' '  she  said,  with  a  quiet 
sadness  that  drew  attention  to  the  deep  suffering  in  her 
pale  and  sharpened  face.  ' '  Only  take  me  away,  send  me 
away — don't  let  me  ever  see  Ingrestone  again." 

So  the  ash-tree,  under  which  those  lovers  had  parted 
with  such  grief  and  pain,  opened  its  black  buds  to  pour 
a  shower  of  graceful  greenery  upon  the  summer  air  and 
cast  it  down,  ruined,  on  the  turf,  and  spread  its  gray 
arms  bare  to  shrieking  tempests  and  silent  snows,  again 
and  again.  Old  men  laid  down  the  burden  of  life,  chil- 
dren shot  up  to  full  growth  and  met  as  lovers  beneath  its 
light  foliage  and  polished  branches  by  sun  and  moon  and 
starlight,  but  Richard  and  Kathleen  met  no  more  there 
or  anywhere  upon  the  earth. 

Other  faces  and  other  voices  were  in  Ingrestone 
House,  trees  grew,  turf  deepened  and  golden  broidery  of 
lichen  came  upon  roof  and  wall.  But  Ingrestone  itself 
changed  little  after  the  first  mad  outburst  of  building 
provoked  by  the  railway  running  through  it.  The  Pines 
had  thrown  out  new  wings  and  enlarged  its  stables, 
taking  in  fresh  garden  ground  and  shrubbery.  Glass- 
houses, lawns  and  fruit  gardens  now  claimed  the  whole 
of  GatrelFs  and  several  helpers'  time;  the  gray  front  of 


BURDEN    AND    HEAT   OF   DAY     171 

old,  so  square  and  stern,  now  smiled  in  light-hearted  ir- 
regularity of  window  and  gable  from  a  veil  of  creepers 
and  climbing  roses ;  fences  and  walls  were  in  good  repair ; 
prosperity  was  written  everywhere.  But  the  pine-trees 
sang  the  same  old  song  that  seemed  an  echo  of  the  sea's 
multitudinous  moan,  and  was  a  lullaby  or  a  dirge,  a 
tragic  foreboding  or  a  dream  of  forgotten  joy,  according 
to  the  listener's  mood.  Some  of  the  taller  columns  had 
fallen,  their  tops  were  higher  and  thicker,  more  birds 
sheltered  in  their  boughs,  and  the  solemn  yet  cheerful  ef- 
fect of  their  dark  roof  and  shadowy  aisles  was  deeper 
than  ever. 

The  neglected  spot  by  the  gravel  pit,  where  Mr.  Bel- 
ton  had  met  his  death,  was  now  tenderly  cared  for  and 
marked  by  a  granite  cross  clasped  and  clothed  by  a  red 
rose-tree,  the  plinth  half  submerged  in  low-growing  flow- 
ers in  their  several  seasons,  with  summer  sentinels  of  tall 
white  lilies.  Here  Mrs.  Belton  had  passed  many  an  hour 
of  summer  and  autumn,  with  books  or  work  or  gardening 
tools,  quiet  and  unmolested  for  the  most  part,  since  the 
spot  was  shunned  by  the  children.  But  Edith  bat- 
tened upon  regrets  and  reveled  in  emotions;  she  was 
never  so  truly  happy  as  when  able  to  drop  a  tear  upon 
the  flowers  planted  in  memory  of  poor  Belton,  who  might 
have  been  the  kindest  of  husbands  and  fathers  and  most 
faultless  of  men,  by  the  way  in  which  she  alluded  to  him 
— to  the  speechless  amazement  of  Richard,  whose  own 
father  she  never  named.  Which  of  the  two,  he  some- 
times speculated,  had  she  loved?  Belton  had  certainly 
exercised  a  powerful  fascination  over  her,  but  fascina- 
tion is  various;  there  is  even  a  fascination  of  repulsion. 
' '  Poor  Belton ! ' '  was  the  usual  refrain  to  his  reflections 
on  the  subject. 

''Pretty  nigh  forgot  by  this  time,"  Jaynes,  the  car- 
rier, was  saying  one  evening,  among  the  hollyhocks  by 
Gatrell  's  garden  wall,  which  was  of  the  social  height  that 
allowed  men 's  arms  to  rest  comfortably  upon  it.  Gatrell 
leaned  breast-high  upon  it  inside  his  garden,  Jaynes  and 


172  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Seth  Barton  were  propped  in  the  same  way  in  the  road  at 
the  pleasant  hour  of  curfew.  Glowing  sunset  streaked 
all  the  western  sky,  the  scent  of  summer  flowers,  and  hay- 
fields,  pine-wood  and  sea-salt,  filled  the  pure  and  rapidly 
cooling  air;  clanging  rooks  and  high-flying  swifts  were 
giving  place  to  the  blind  flutter  of  bats  and  ghostly 
glimmer  of  moths.  A  sweet  and  restful  hour,  the  burden 
and  heat  of  the  day  gone  by,  when  sweethearts  stroll  in 
shadowy  lanes,  and  tired  folk  rest  and  talk  of  things  past, 
present  and  to  come. 

"Pretty  nigh  forgot,"  Jaynes  said.  "Not  but  what 
there 's  some  that  mind  it  well  enough. ' ' 

"Aye,"  Gatrell  assented  from  the  hollyhocks,  his 
grizzly  hair  powdered  by  their  pollen.  ' '  Sure  enough, ' ' 
he  added,  brushing  away  a  cockchafer  from  his  face, 
"sure  enough." 

"They  maids  could  tell  a  tale,"  added  Seth  Barton, 
thoughtfully  staring  into  thick-laden  gooseberry  bushes. 
"Emma  lives  married  over  at  Sandycombe,  married  a 
baker,  name  of  Jacobs. ' ' 

' '  We  seen  en  go  out  of  geate, ' '  continued  the  carrier. 
"A  tallish  man  with  tight  trousers  and  a  high  hat,  a 
harsy-looken  man.  You  med  see  the  like  of  en  at  the 
races. ' ' 

"Many  a  one  poor  Mr.  Belton  had  doens  with,"  added 
Seth  Barton.  "He  was  a  rare  hand  at  betting,  that's 
where  the  money  went,  I  reckon.  Times  is  changed 
over  at  the  Pines.  It  is  not  the  saame  plaace  to 
look  at." 

"What  do  ee  make  of  it?"  asked  Jaynes.  "Belton 
hadn't  a  penny  to  his  naame.  And  the  debts  he  left! 
Look  at  Beltons  now.  They  purely  drows  money  about. ' ' 

"It's  Mr.  Rosny,  he's  paymaster.  A  long  head  he've 
got.  Put  his  money  in  Belton  &  Laking.  Aye,  and  put 
somat  a  sight  better  than  money,  put  his  brains  in.  Bel- 
ton  &  Laking  is  three  times  what  they  was.  Look  at  the 
new  plaaces  they've  opened  pretty  nigh  everywhere." 

' '  He  was  never  one  to  think  of  himself, ' '  Gatrell  said. 


BURDEN   AND    HEAT   OF   DAY     173 

' '  He 's  ben  a  father  to  the  young  uns,  poor  things.     Med 
have  had  some  of  his  own  but  for  they. ' ' 

"Ah!  she  gave  him  the  go-by  so  soon  as  she  known 
how  he  was  left,"  Jaynes  said.  "A  ooman'll  go  to  the 
lew  side  of  the  hedge  so  soon  as  ever  the  wind  blows." 

"Goo  on  with  ee.  There's  many  a  ooman'll  stand  to 
windard  of  a  man  in  a  storm, ' '  said  Barton.  ' '  They  're 
tenderer-hearted  than  men,  take  them  all  hround,  and 
faithfuller.  Very  like  'twas  he  that  gave  her  up.  Med 
a-told  her  what  was  laid  upon  him  and  said  he  hadn't  the 
conscience  to  ask  her  to  bide  till  her  beauty  time  was 
over. ' ' 

' '  Nothen  second  best  in  that  young  ooman, ' '  said  Ga- 
treli.  ' '  Never  bin  anighst  the  plaace  zince.  Volk  do  say 
'twas  the  Colonel  put  a  stop  to  it,  and  no  blaame  to  eii 
neither.  Mr.  Rosny,  he  never  held  up  his  head  after. 
Vurry  like  she  bides  a  maid  for  love  of  he. ' ' 

"That's  your  fancy  way  of  looken  at  things;  a  man 
don 't  pine  for  a  ooman  like  that, ' '  Jaynes  said.  ' '  Now, 
Mr.  Rosny,  he 's  a  practical  man.  Merstone  biscuits  goes 
hround  the  world.  Look  at  his  Life  Saving  Apparatus. 
All  brings  grist  to  the  mill.  And  him  bred  up  at  sea. ' ' 

"'Tisn't  the  breeding  up,"  objected  Barton,  "'tis 
what's  in  a  man.  Put  a  heart  of  oak  man  in  the  navy 
and  he'll  end  a  Admiral.  Put  him  in  business  and  he'll 
maake  a  vartune.  Put  him  in  Parliament  and  he'll  end 
a  Prime  Minister  or  a  Earl." 

' '  Put  en  in  a  gairden  and  what  '11  he  do  ?  "  questioned 
Gatrell,  smiling  wisely  on  the  "roving  sailor,"  whose 
shining  leaves  crept  in  the  interstices  of  the  stone-wall  be- 
neath his  rugged  brown  hands. 

"I'll  warrant  he'll  grow  more  in  thet  there  gairden 
than  anybody  ever  done  before. ' ' 

"A  gairden 's  a  gairden,"  Gatrell  objected.  "Some 
is  barn  with  a  head  vor't,  some  is  barn  without.  Mr. 
Rosny 's  a  knowledgeable  man  as  ever  I  know  and  a 
reasonable.  There's  a  poor  vew  things  he  cain't  do. 
But  he  and  me  differs  about  the  gairden." 
12 


174  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Ah,  Gatrell,  voreright  you  was  barn  and  voreright 
you  '11  die ;  but  every  man  to  his  trade. ' ' 

' '  You  and  me  seen  en  go  in  geate, ' '  repeated  Jaynes, 
who  had  been  pursuing  the  thread  of  his  own  thoughts 
in  silence;  "but  we  never  zeen  en  come  out  no  more. 
And  there  was  vices.  And  whether  'twas  she  done  it  or 
he,  I  shouldn't  cast  it  up  agen  her.  And  Gatrell  could 
tell  a  tale,  if  he'd  a  mind  to." 

"I  can  tell  the  time  o'  day  when  the  sun  shines  at 
noon.  Draa  out  a  vurrow  north  and  south  and  stand 
there  till  your  shadow  vails  straight  along  the  vurrow, 
and  you  med  be  sure  'tis  nooning  time.  How  do  your 
Missus  do  with  the  bees  Mr.  Rosny  let  her  have,  Jaynes  ? ' ' 

"Middlen.  Wold  ooman  hreckons  to  make  mead 
already.  But  I  must  go  on  home.  So  good  night 
to  ee." 

He  rose  slowly  from  his  bending  posture,  straight- 
ened himself  gradually,  and  went  on  his  way  in  the  cool, 
scented  twilight,  leaving  the  others  leaning  cross-armed 
on  the  wall,  listening  to  the  quick  chirp  of  grasshoppers 
and  slow  boom  of  cockchafers  till  they  were  joined  by 
Deborah,  who  had  been  quietly  circling  about  the  garden, 
examining  this  row  of  peas,  and  trying  that  carnation, 
picking  up  a  weed  here  and  a  pebble  there,  and  specula- 
ting on  the  prospects  of  various  vegetable  darlings  with 
tranquil  enjoyment  and  interest.  Then  it  occurred  to 
Seth  Barton  to  deliver  himself  of  the  piece  of  news  he 
had  come  on  purpose  to  tell. 

"I  be  gwine  back  to  Wimbury  to  live,"  he  said. 

' '  The  deuce  you  be ! "  exclaimed  Gatrell,  whereupon 
Barton  wished  them  good  night  and  went  his  way  home. 

' '  I  allowed  the  wold  chap  had  somat  to  say, ' '  Gatrell 
explained  when  he  was  gone.  ' '  A  was  vit  to  bust  wi  't ; 
's  f  aace  was  like  a  vuneral. ' ' 

An  hour  earlier  in  the  evening,  Rosny  jumped  out  of 
the  train  that  stopped  at  this  point  only  when  there  were 
passengers  to  drop,  and  rushed  across  the  platform  before 
the  engine  hissed  off  again,  leaped  a  fence  and  strode 


BURDEN   AND    HEAT   OF   DAY     175 

rapidly  along  a  couple  of  fields  into  a  lane  all  honey- 
suckled  and  glowing  in  summer- evening  sun,  that  led  into 
the  road  by  the  Pines,  heedless  of  the  lavish  summer 
beauty  of  woodlands  darkening  velvet-leaved,  of  corn- 
fields turning  tawny,  of  feathery  barley  crops,  and  soft 
blue  bloom  of  sea ;  heedless  of  heat  and  dust,  mindful  only 
of  being  late  for  dinner. 

He  kept  his  sailor  step  and  easy  motion,  but  his  ap- 
pearance suggested  the  man  of  business;  his  face  no 
longer  kept  its  open,  joyous  look,  but  was  grave  and  care- 
lined  ;  the  dark-blue  eyes  had  lost  no  fire,  but  all  gaiety. 
A  close  beard  hiding  the  full  lips,  once  so  sunny,  took 
further  from  the  open  character  of  the  face;  some  gray 
streaks  in  his  hair  made  him  look  older  than  his  thirty- 
three  years ;  his  frame  was  spare  though  athletic ;  dusty, 
hot  and  fagged  though  he  was,  it  was  a  fine  and  im- 
pressive figure  that  flashed  through  the  fields  and  lanes 
in  the  July  sunshine,  dashed  through  the  carefully  cooled 
house  and  up  to  a  little  room  at  the  top  that  had  been  his 
room  from  schooldays.  A  bed,  a  bath,  a  chair,  a  wri- 
ting-table with  a  copying-press,  and  some  book-shelves, 
composed  the  furniture  of  this  stronghold,  which  was 
adorned  by  his  father 's  sword  on  the  wall  above  his  own, 
his  father's  portrait,  a  few  time-tables,  some  plans,  maps, 
diagrams,  and  lists  of  engagements. 

Very  different  was  the  dining-room,  into  which  he 
plunged  renovated  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time, 
to  find  dinner  half  over.  It  was  still  more  different  from 
the  dingy  and  battered  apartment  in  which  so  much 
misery  had  been  suffered.  The  window,  through  which 
Belton  had  looked  at  the  Christmas-tree,  had  given 
place  to  a  deep  bay,  open  to  the  cooling  air  sweet  with 
pine-scent.  Peacocks  formed  the  somewhat  sumptuous 
decoration  of  this  room;  the  birds  themselves  in  many 
combinations,  with  various  sweep  and  expanse  of  tail, 
circled  round  a  dado  of  the  dull  cinnamon  of  the  wing 
feathers,  with  a  bordering  of  brilliant  breast-blue,  dia- 
pered and  edged  with  tail-eyes;  the  walls  were  splashed 


176  RICHARD   ROSNY 

with  tail  feathers  on  a  gold  ground ;  the  frieze,  of  cinna- 
mon edged  with  eyes,  again  showed  peacocks;  the  door 
curtain  of  silken  embroidery  gathered  up  all  these  mo- 
tives in  one,  with  a  full  spread  bird  in  the  lower  panel; 
the  window  curtains  were  silk  tapestry  of  tail  feathers ; 
the  oaken  chairs  upholstered  with  the  same.  This  dar- 
ing color  was  checked  by  oaken  furniture  and  judicious 
pottery  and  bronzes. 

Edith  seemed  very  happy  in  a  pensive  way  among  her 
peacocks ;  she  looked  little  older  than  nine  years  ago  and 
was  exquisitely  dressed  in  neutral  tints  of  slight  mourn- 
ing with  red  roses  from  the  granite  cross. 

"My  dearest  boy,"  she  murmured,  when  Richard 
came  in, ' '  if  you  would  but  learn  punctuality.  The  poor 
cook.  It  is  all  very  well  to  tell  us  not  to  wait,  but  when 
should  we  see  you,  if  not  at  dinner?" 

' '  Some  day  I  hope  to  have  time  to  be  sociable.  This 
'loathsome  commerce,'  as  you  call  it,  mother,  ruins  the 
minor  morals." 

' '  It  spoils  a  man, ' '  added  Gerald,  pausing  to  contem- 
plate the  dish  handed  him  before  he  passed  it,  with  a 
profound  sigh.  "The  trail  of  finance  is  over  you,  old 
chap ;  you  '11  soon  be  unfit  for  human  society  and  have  to 
be  turned  out  to  grass  like  Nebuchadnezzar." 

"Any  news  of  Archie,  Muff?"  Richard  asked.  "I 
thought  I  saw  a  foreign  letter  this  morning. ' ' 

"A  most  interesting  account — dear  Archie  writes  so 
charmingly  for  a  man — of  Innspruck.  Why  not  go  to 
Innspruck  by  and  by,  all  of  us?  I  know  so  little  of 
eastern  Europe.  Archie  regrets  leaving  Vienna,  so  gay 
and  musical,  they  made  so  many  pleasant  acquaintances 
— were  entertained  by  Viennese  students. ' ' 

' '  Vienna  seems  hardly  the  place  for  a  reading  party, ' ' 
Richard  said. 

"They  think  of  going  through  Greece,  Bulgaria  and 
Servia;  they  may  do  Constantinople." 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  head  of  the  family.  * '  It  was  to  be  a 
quiet  reading  party  in  the  Tyrol." 


BURDEN   AND    HEAT   OF   DAY     177 

' '  Travel  has  expanded  their  wits, ' '  Adeline  explained. 
"Books  are  not  in  the  Tyrol." 

' '  His  love  to  you,  and  he  wants  another  cheque, ' '  Mrs. 
Rosny  added. 

"Already?"  grumbled  Richard,  rising  to  open  the 
door  for  her. 

"Your  Partagas  are  not  up  to  much,  Dick,"  Gerald 
said,  selecting  and  lighting  one,  when  the  brothers  re- 
turned to  the  table,  now  lit  by  admirably  shaded  electric 
lights,  though  the  glow  of  a  clear  crimson  sunset  still  lay 
on  sea  and  hill.  "Always  give  the  best  price  for  cigars 
and  wine." 

"And  most  things,  above  all  experience,"  added 
Rosny,  filling  a  brier-wood  and  looking  thoughtfully  at 
Gerald's  exquisitely  tailored  figure,  which  was  thrown 
with  careless  comfort  into  a  deep  chair,  his  long,  straight 
legs  stretched  before  him,  his  arms  clasped  above  his 
head,  his  eyes  languidly  intent  on  the  blue  spirals  of 
cigar  smoke.  The  half-brothers  had  each  a  strong  look 
of  their  mother,  and,  though  Richard  was  a  thorough 
Rosny  in  feature  and  coloring,  a  still  stronger  likeness  to 
each- other.  Gerald  was  a  slighter  and  weaker  Richard, 
of  more  delicate  features  and  fainter  coloring;  and, 
whereas  Richard  was  held  to  be  iron-hearted  and  bear- 
ish, Gerald's  susceptibilities  were  quick  and  his  sympa- 
thies easily  touched.  His  mother  said  he  was  all  feeling, 
a  creature  of  fire  and  air  like  herself.  When  people  say 
this  of  themselves,  it  means  that  they  think  themselves  too 
fine  for  the  common  uses  of  life. 

"You  shouldn't  grind  at  this  rate,  old  boy,"  Gerald 
said  presently,  with  subdued  sadness.  "You're  a  regu- 
lar swot  on  this  beastly  banking.  You'll  have  to  patent 
yourself  as  a  calculating  machine.  Try  this  Pommard. 
It  isn't  half  bad.  I '11  ring  for  more  ice.  I  like  a  lighter 
wine  myself.  But  you  want  a  pick-me-up,  by  the  look 
of  you." 

"There's  life  in  the  old  dog  yet,  Gerald.  "What's 
your  news'?" 


178  RICHARD   ROSNY 

<; Deuced  bad,  Dick.  Look  here,  old  boy,  it's  no  use 
to  blink  the  matter,  but  I  absolutely  can't  do  on  my  al- 
lowance. The  whole  of  my  pay  goes  in  uniform  and 
messing. ' ' — Richard  remarked  that  he  had  heard  this  be- 
fore.— "And  I  dropped  a  lot  at  that  last  meeting.  I 
must  have  another  polo  pony — just  lamed  Jewel,  think  of 
shooting  the  poor  beastie — and,  in  short,  you  must  plank 
down  three  or  four  hundred  besides  the  allowance.  You 
don't  know  a  chap's  necessities  in  a  regiment  like  ours. 
So  much  is  expected  of  a  man  in  a  big  banking  family. 
That's  the  worst  of  the  commercial  taint,  you've  got  to 
live  up  to  it." 

"It  has  been  a  hot  day,  Gerald,  and  money  is  indi- 
gestible, ' '  Richard  said,  his  eyes  fixed  abstractedly  upon 
an  exquisitely  cool  and  restful  Alma  Tadema  on  the  wall, 
all  clear  blue  sea  and  sky,  clear  marble  and  graceful 
Greek  girl,  filleted  and  chitoned  and  calm. 

:'Ah!  it's  of  no  consequence,"  Gerald  said  blandly, 
tinkling  some  ice  into  his  glass.  ' '  No  hurry  for  a  day  or 
two.  Here  comes  Gwen  to  call  us  out  to  coffee.  Awfully 
jolly  outside  in  the  cool.  Coming,  little  girl,  coming." 


CHAPTER   XVI 

A     FAMILY     AFFAIK 

ROSNY'S  face  had  a  jaded  and  almost  heart-sick  ex- 
pression when  he  rose  from  his  peacocked  chair  and  lin- 
gered a  moment  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  which  was 
painted  in  many  shades  of  peacock  blue  up  to  the  deep 
breast-tint,  as  if  in  a  kind  of  despairing  interrogation. 
Then,  looking  through  the  window,  he  saw  Gwen,  a  fairy 
figure  flitting  in  and  out  of  the  trees,  singing  for  pure 
gladness  of  heart,  with  her  flying  hair  and  short  white 
dress  wreathed  in  fresh-gathered  honeysuckle,  and  rose 
and  followed  Gerald  into  the  clear  and  balmy  twilight, 
that  breathed  roses  and  mignonette  and  crushed  grass. 

Fields  and  sea,  cliffs  and  downs,  all  lay  magical  in 
the  soft  shadows;  the  girls'  voices  sounded  fresher  than 
ever  in  the  stillness  of  closing  day ;  Richard  felt  the  peace 
at  the  heart  of  things  sink  into  his  breast,  when  he  sat 
under  the  trees,  hearing  the  joyous  talk  and  watching  his 
sisters'  young  figures  flitting  among  the  flowers. 

They  sat  in  the  refreshing  coolness  till  the  stars  came 
out  and  the  white  glow  of  towns  showed  clear  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  rumbling  trains  became  red-eyed,  fiery  mon- 
sters flashing  through  the  fields,  and  glow-worms  hung 
out  little  quivering  green  lamps.  Then  Richard  was 
taken  into  the  new  drawing-room,  opening  from  the  old 
one,  to  see  Adeline's  new  piano. 

"Hullo !"  he  cried,  at  the  sight  of  it.  "I  thought  it 
was  to  be  a  semi-grand  or  a  cottage." 

"Ah,  I  thought  it  would  be  a  pleasant  surprise,  Rich- 
ard, ' '  was  the  gay  reply.  ' '  In  rooms  like  these  a  grand 

is  a  necessity." 

179 


180  RICHARD   ROSNY 

''In  rooms  like  these — well,  it  certainly  has  a  fine 
effect." 

He  was  not  a  great  admirer  of  those  rooms;  their 
brocaded  hangings  of  delicate  pale  blue,  with  borderings 
of  equally  delicate  rose-wreaths  on  a  blue  ground,  their 
ceilings  painted  with  pale  sunset  clouds  and  rose- 
wreathed  cupids  in  the  same  tints,  their  portieres  and 
window  curtains  in  ivory  silk  embroidered  with  forget- 
me-not  and  almond  blossom,  and  their  white  enameled 
woodwork — all  seemed  too  light,  dainty  and  evanescent 
for  his  taste,  which  was  toward  comfort  and  homeliness. 
' '  Though  why  poor,  dear  Richard  can  not  be  comfortable 
in  a  well-stuffed  lounge  because  it  happens  to  be  uphol- 
stered in  blue  silk  brocade  passes  my  comprehension," 
his  mother  more  than  once  observed. 

"The  whole  thing  is  like  a  piece  of  Dresden  china," 
he  explained  once,  whereupon  he  was  asked  what  could 
possibly  be  more  charming  than  Dresden  china.  The 
water-colors  on  the  brocaded  panels  would  have  been 
killed  by  deeper  tints,  he  was  reminded,  and  all  was  just 
right  for  the  Bartolozzis.  Much  Dresden  china  was  in 
these  rooms,  with  many  specimens  of  cream-yellow 
Worcester ;  nor  was  antique  china  nor  Greek  and  Roman 
pottery  wanting,  nor  inlaid  cabinets  of  curios,  nor  books 
in  sumptuous  editions,  nor  superbly  illustrated  art  pub- 
lications, nor  marble  statuettes  from  the  best  Greek  and 
modern  models. 

Perhaps  there  were  too  many  flowers;  he  was  quite 
certain  some  of  the  potpourri  jars  might  have  been 
emptied  with  advantage  to  the  atmosphere.  But  he 
often  thought  with  regret  of  the  dear,  shabby  old  room, 
to  which  his  mother  had  contrived  to  impart  a  poetry 
and  grace  peculiarly  her  own  on  the  slightest  material 
foundation ;  the  room  in  which  they  had  read  and  talked 
so  pleasantly  together,  and  brought  delicate  music  from 
a  piano  whose  only  fault  was  being  past  its  youth;  the 
room  in  which  his  mother  had  poured  so  many  troubles 
into  his  sympathetic  ear,  and  to  which  he  had  brought 


Kathleen  one  golden  autumn  afternoon,  as  his  future 
wife.  What  deep,  irrecoverable  charm  there  had  been 
in  that  room !  The  others  maintained  that  the  Dresden 
china  coloring  would  have  been  less  obnoxious  to  him  in 
paper  and  chintz  than  in  brocade  and  hand-embroidery. 
"We  have  the  defects  of  our  qualities,"  his  mother  once 
observed  with  tender  melancholy.  ' '  Those  who  have  ac- 
quired wealth  by  toil  are  disinclined  to  part  with  it. 
Yet,  dear  Richard  is  by  nature  the  most  generous  of  men. ' ' 

When  she  said  things  like  that  Rosny's  thoughts  flew 
to  the  granite  cross,  and  he  said  to  himself,  "Poor  Bel- 
ton!" 

So,  when  dear  Richard  saw  the  new  piano  and  per- 
ceived that  it  was  a  Bliithner  grand  of  superb  dimen- 
sions, and  all  the  latest  improvements,  his  spirit  died 
within  him  and  he  had  no  heart  to  frame  the  sordid 
question  that  trembled  upon  his  lips.  His  wandering 
gaze  rested  upon  a  little  inlaid  table  his  mother  had 
shown  him  a  few  days  before,  a  fine  piece  of  marquetry 
and  no  doubt  dirt-cheap  at  fifty  guineas,  but  very  tiny, 
and  though  second-hand,  in  good  condition. 

"Well,  Muff,  dear,"  was  his  comment  upon  the  table, 
"I'm  glad  you  like  it.  But  if  you  manage  to  get  fifty 
guineas'  worth  of  pleasure  out  of  that  little  bit  of  wood- 
work, you'll  be  a  clever  woman,  and  a  lucky  one." 

"To  measure  our  pleasure  by  the  guineas'  worth," 
had  been  the  horrified  rejoinder.  "Has  it  come  to  this, 
Richard?  Must  you  ask  the  pecuniary  equivalent  of 
fine  emotion,  the  money  value  of  esthetic  charm?  You 
will  be  putting  a  price  on  primroses,  and  demanding  the 
cost  of  sunset  tints  soon.  Oh,  my  dearest  boy,  why  did 
you  leave  a  noble  profession  to  embark  on  a  sordid  career, 
in  which  all  that  is  highest  in  you  seems  to  be  slowly 
atrophied  1 ' ' 

"Oh,  for  reasons,  mother,  for  reasons.  But  if  the 
table  satisfies  your  finest  emotions — Well,  well."  Re- 
membering this  he  restrained  an  unhallowed  curiosity; 
about  the  piano. 


182  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Suppose  you  let  us  hear  it,"  he  said,  opening  the 
piano  and  lifting  the  great  wing. 

"So  that's  a  butterfly  of  Grieg's?  Very  pretty,  Ad- 
die.  Yes ;  the  tone  is  very  good. ' ' 

"But  you'll  squirm  at  the  price,  old  boy,"  said  Ger- 
ald, who  was  on  the  stool  by  Adeline  for  a  duet.  ' '  Four 
fifty;  that's  all.  Guineas,  mind  you." 

"Ah!"  replied  Richard.  "How  do  I  look  when  I 
squirm  ? ' ' 

"Isn't  the  tone  superb?"  Mrs.  Belton  asked  through 
the  pianissimo  passages  of  an  arrangement  of  Beethoven 's 
Septet  with  violin  parts  by  Molly. 

"They  play  well,"  he  assented. 

Molly  was  sixteen,  fully  grown,  her  face  had  a  sweet 
unconsciousness,  the  young  undeveloped  figure,  swaying 
to  the  sweep  of  her  bow,  and  dressed  in  white,  was  charm- 
ing. Adeline  was  twenty-one.  Her  mass  of  wild  curls 
gathered  up  and  piled  with  great  play  of  light  and 
shade  on  her  well-carried  head,  her  round  white  arms 
and  full  white  throat  gleaming  in  soft  light,  her  bright 
blue  eyes  and  rose  and  lily  face  alone  entitled  her  to 
beauty.  But  her  eyes  could  flash  and  soften,  there  was 
a  gay,  almost  reckless,  daring  in  her  looks  and  words,  a 
certain  come-if-you-dare  challenge  in  her  firm,  full  lips, 
that  went  far  beyond  physical  attraction  and  dangerously 
heightened  it;  there  was  spring,  like  that  of  a  fine  steel 
blade,  in  the  supple  figure  poised  with  firm  lightness  at 
the  piano;  it  was  a  well-trained  and  capable  physique, 
such  as  previous  generations  seldom  knew ;  power,  mental 
and  physical,  and  restrained,  impatient  energy,  made  the 
dominant  notes  in  this  pretty  Adeline. 

' '  By  the  way, ' '  Mrs.  Belton  said,  from  the  depths  of 
a  downy  Chesterfield,  "Ronald  Musgrave  turned  up  to- 
day. He  is  coming  to  lunch  to-morrow  on  the  chance  of 
finding  you,  as  it  is  Sunday." 

"Ah!"  returned  Richard.  "I  haven't  seen  him  for 
years.  He 's  a  commander  now. ' ' 

"I  didn't  see  him;  Molly  and  I  were  in  that  absurd 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR  183 

little  yacht, ' '  Gerald  said.  ' '  Why  don 't  you  get  an  elec- 
tric launch,  Dick?  Or  a  decent-sized  yacht?  Such  a 
grind  to  sail  this  little  beast. ' ' 

"Captain  Musgrave  brought  news,"  Adeline  began, 
with  hesitation. 

* '  You  mean  of  Kathleen  ? ' '  Richard  said.  ' '  I  saw  it 
in  the  Times  a  week  ago.  I  hope  it 's  a  good  match. ' ' 

"Ah!"  his  mother  thought  to  herself.  "It  is  all 
right  again.  He  has  recovered  from  that  horrid  Kitty  at 
last." 

Then  Gerald  and  the  girls  played  and  sang  some 
Mikado  music  with  spirit  and  enjoyment,  while  Richard 
walked  about,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  face  full  of 
thought  so  absorbing  that  he  stood  looking  at  a  lovely  Al- 
liugham  of  thatched  red  cottage  peeping  through  clouds 
of  apple-blossom,  for  ten  minutes  without  seeing  it,  and 
the  concert  ended  in  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  Adeline 
turned  and  cried  to  him,  ' '  Come,  old  Grumps,  why  don 't 
you  join  in?  What  in  the  world's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said,  coming  back  to  sit  on  the  end  of 
Mrs.  Belton's  sofa  with  one  leg  swinging.  "But  I've 
been  thinking.  And  now  that  Gwen  has  gone  to  bed  and 
we  are  all  here,  except  Archie,  I  want  just  to  say " 

' '  Hear,  hear, ' '  cried  Gerald,  extending  his  long  limbs 
in  the  most  comfortable  chair  he  could  find.  "Drive 
on!" 

"To  say,"  he  continued,  while  the  two  girls  leaned 
across  the  piano,  "that  is — to  take  you  into  my  confi- 
dence. It's  better,  Muffle,  dear,  don't  you  think,  that 
we  should  all  know  just  how  we  stand  financially " 

"Ah!  my  dear  boy,  sordid  details  again,"  she  com- 
plained. ' '  Getting  and  spending  we  lay  waste  our  pow- 
ers. Surely  we  need  not  be  always  counting  these 
wretched  pennies. ' ' 

' '  That 's  just  it,  mother, ' '  he  continued,  more  gravely. 
' '  What  I  want  you  and  all  the  grown-up  ones — yes,  Molly 
is  sixteen  and  sensible — to  do,  is  to  know  exactly  what 
there  is  to  spend  and  keep  to  it.  I  hate  to  have  to  say 


184  RICHARD    ROSNY 

'  this  and  that  is  beyond  our  means. '  Gerald  is  out  of  it, 
on  his  own  foundation.  But  as  the  eldest  he  has  a  right 
to  know  how  we  stand ;  and  Archie  and  the  rest  have  their 
allowances,  all  but  the  youngest.  But  with  regard  to 
general  expenses — it's  simply  this,  Muff,  darling,  we 
must  retrench." 

' '  My  dearest  child ! ' '  she  cried,  starting  up  from  her 
downy  depths.  "You  can  not  mean — oh!  I  knew  there 
was  something  terrible  from  the  expression  of  your  face 
— but  surely  Belton,  Laking  &  Co.  are  not  going1?" 

"I  say,  you  don't  mean  a  smash,  Dick?"  Gerald  said. 

' '  Oh !  the  firm — the  firm  is  all  right.  But  we  are  not 
the  firm,  and,  as  I  was  saying,  we  are  living  beyond  our 
income — and  must  retrench." 

"And  Molly  coming  out  in  the  spring,"  sighed 
Edith.  "And  the  poor  boys  at  Winchester  and  Wool- 
wich. Oh !  this  eternal  lack  of  pence. ' ' 

' '  Let  us  let  the  Pines  and  winter  in  Borne  or  Florence, 
or  Monte  Carlo,"  suggested  Adeline. 

Gerald  dragged  himself  out  of  his  deep  chair  in  pure 
horror,  and  let  his  arms  drop  in  dejection  upon  his  knees. 
"Come,  old  chap,  you  don't  expect  mother  and  the  girls 
to  run  a  mangle  or  take  in  single  men  ? "  he  remonstrated. 

"This  dear  home  and  all  its  associations,"  Edith  la- 
mented. "Richard,  how  can  we  retrench?  Poor  econ- 
omy to  give  up  part  of  the  glass  and  the  gardens  and  have 
to  buy  things ;  we  can  not  give  up  the  house  in  Belgrave 
street  just  as  your  sisters  are  coming  out.  We  can  not 
do  with  fewer  servants.  It  must  be  the  carriage  horses, 
and  with  my  increasing  weakness " 

' '  Set  your  heart  at  rest,  Muffle,  dear.  Your  carriage 
horses  shall  not  go.  You  know  when  we  began  to  keep 
house  together,  we  agreed  that  you  should  order  things 
and  I  pay  the  bills.  I  scarcely  think  that  the  best  sys- 
tem. Every  year  we  've  spent  more  than  double  the  pro- 
posed income.  I  propose  that  Adeline,  with  your  ad- 
vice and  with  Molly  to  take  turns,  should  take  the  family 
finances  in  hand.  Three  hundred  a  year  comes  from 


A   FAMILY   AFFAIR  185 

Godfrey  Belton  as  long  as  he  lives.  With  that  and  nine 
hundred  paid  to  your  account  to  draw  from,  can  you  keep 
house,  mother?  It  won't  run  to  Bliithner  grands,  of 
course.  But  it's  only  for  housekeeping.  The  personal 
allowances  are  exclusive  of  that.  And  I  am  not  to  be 
counted  as  an  inmate. ' ' 

"Kichard,  my  head  whirls,"  interrupted  his  mother, 
with  considerable  energy.  ' '  You  are  really  terrible ;  you 
seem  to  have  money  on  the  brain.  You  can't  expect  your 
sisters  to  act  as  bank  clerks,  nor  can  I,  at  my  time  of  life, 
entirely  change  my  nature.  After  all,  if  we  must  starve, 
let  us  at  least  starve  with  dignity,  if  not  with  elegance. ' ' 

"You  need  not  starve  in  any  manner  on  twelve  hun- 
dred a  year." 

"That  you  should  be  capable  of  such  unkindness," 
she  said,  "when  you  left  the  navy  expressly  to  do 
nothing  but  make  money,.  To  lead  us  to  suppose  you 
were  able  to  bear  all  these  expenses  and  then  suddenly 
and  for  no  reason  to  wish  to  cut  everything  down !  It 
was  your  wish  to  enlarge  the  house  and  add  to  the 
grounds,  not  mine;  you  bought  it,  not  I.  It  was  your 
wish  to  give  the  boys  expensive  educations.  And  you 
tell  us  suddenly  that  you  are  penniless. ' ' 

' '  But,  mother,  the  house  was  not  bought  and  enlarged 
with  income,"  he  explained.  "That  was  an  investment. 
The  capital  came  from  the  Life  Saving  Gear.  Every  life- 
boat station  and  lighthouse  has  it  now,  and  the  boom  has 
become  a  slump." 

"What  in  Heaven's  name  is  a  slump?"  the  afflicted 
woman  sighed. 

"I'm  blest  if  I  understand,"  Gerald  said.  "I 
thought  it  was  all  boom  and  no  slump.  I  thought  you 
were  one  of  the  firm,  Dick.  I  thought  the  Merstone  bis- 
cuits and  the  cooperative  places  were  paying  like  fun." 

"I  am  a  salaried  manager  with  some  shares;  we  are 
joint  stock  now.  The  biscuits  pay,  but  the  cooperatives 
were  never  intended  to  make  money.  Do  you  think,  Ade- 
line, that  you  can  keep  mother 's  household  accounts  1 ' ' 


186  RICHARD    ROSNY 

"I  think,"  she  said,  still  leaning  on  the  piano,  her 
chin  supported  on  her  firm  white  hands,  ' '  that  I  'd  better 
elope  with  the  first  curate  I  can  pick  up.  Or  open  a 
milliner's  shop." 

"I  say,  Dick,"  cried  Gerald,  "don't  you  think  we've 
had  about  enough  of  this — before  the  girls  1 ' ' 

Eichard  was  standing  very  squarely  with  his  back  to 
the  chimney-piece  and  a  flame  in  his  eyes.  He  looked  at 
Gerald  in  silence,  then  turned  to  his  mother. 

' '  We  will  discuss  these  matters  when  alone, ' '  she  said, 
coldly,  with  an  angry  flush,  and  Richard  looked  at  her 
with  a  memory  of  innumerable  and  fruitless  discussions. 
"I  am  content  with  our  present  arrangements,  Richard, 
but  I  gather  that  you  wish  to  leave  us.  Why  should 
you?" 

"Why  shouldn't  II  Dear  Muffie,  a  man  doesn't 
always  live  with  his  mother." 

"Why,  Dick,"  cried  Adeline,  with  a  joyous  smile, 
"you  don't  mean  to  say  you  think  of  marriage  at  your 
time  of  life?" 

' '  That  is  exactly  what  I  mean  to  say, ' '  he  replied,  his 
eyes  softening.  ' '  But  I  meant  to  tell  mother  first. ' ' 

"But  pray  what  is  there  to  tell?"  she  asked,  bewil- 
dered. 

' '  That  I  am  engaged  to  be  married,  Muff,  dear,  only 
that." 


CHAPTER   XVII 

GATEELL'S   ADVICE 

AN  explosion  of  shrapnel  or  lyddite,  or  the  sudden 
furious  snapping  of  a  pom-pom  in  the  midst  of  the  Dres- 
den china  rooms,  could  not  have  produced  more  con- 
sternation than  this  announcement. 

A  silence  of  utter  horror,  through  which  a  clock  sur- 
mounted by  groups  of  china  figures  cheerily  chimed  the 
three-quarters,  sealed  the  lips  of  the  petrified  gazers  on 
the  tall  man  in  their  midst,  for  the  space  of  one  minute. 
Had  Richard  announced  the  imminent  extermination  of 
the  race  instead  of  a  probable  and  pleasant  addition  to  it, 
the  stupefaction  could  not  have  been  greater. 

"Richard!"  almost  shrieked  Edith.  "Engaged? 
You?  Why  Kathleen  is  married." 

"I  thought  that  young  damsel  was  not  fished  out  of 
the  weir  for  nothing, ' '  Adeline  observed. 

"Going  to  be  married!"  ejaculated  Gerald  in  a 
tragic  voice.  "With  your  responsibilities?  Well.  I 
a  in  " 

' '  It  has  come  upon  me  rather  suddenly, ' '  said  Rosny, 
smiling  to  himself,  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  admirably  par- 
queted floor.  "These  things  do.  I  meant  to  tell  you 
first,  Muffie ;  but,  as  you  see,  I  've  given  myself  away.  I 
hope  you  will  like  her.  I  am  sure  you  will." 

"Dear  Richard,"  she  replied  gaspingly;  "you  must 
be  aware  that  this  is  a  terrible  blow  to  me,  the  more  ter- 
rible because  so  totally  unexpected — it  is  your  old  hurri- 
cane way — you  never  spared  one's  feelings;  it  is  some- 
times a  little  trying  and  so  very  like  your  poor  father — 
rough  and  ready,  a  veritable  human  tempest.  I  presume 

187 


188  RICHARD    ROSNY 

that  the  engagement  is  yet  to  be  concluded ;  as  for  mar- 
riage  " 

11  Marriage?"  echoed  Adeline,  "and  he  wants  to  re- 
trench?" 

' '  Marriage  ? ' '  added  Gerald.  ' '  How  can  a  man  with 
such  responsibilities  marry  ?  It  would  be  positively  sin- 
ful. It  wouldn  't  be  fair  to  the  girl. ' ' 

' '  The  die  is  cast,  Gerald.  Single  blessedness  is  a  little 
monotonous  for  a  continuance. ' ' 

"But  the  other  thing  is  infernally  selfish.  Nobody 
ever  dreamed  of  your  doing  such  a  thing.  Look  here, 
Richard,  you  must  be  having  us,  you  can't  be  serious; 
and  with  your  responsibilities " 

"He  has  no  responsibilities,  Gerald,"  Edith  broke  in 
with  sudden  fire;  "none  but  those  of  every  grown  man. 
He  need  consult  no  one,  still  less  on  such  a  very  natural 
proceeding  as  his  marriage.  Because  he  has  given  up 
everything  and  devoted  himself  to  a  life  of  severe  and 
uncongenial  toil;  because  he  has  renounced  every  pleas- 
ure, every  personal  hope,  every  joy ;  because  he  has  con- 
sumed his  youth,  dwarfed  his  interests  and  stifled  his 
talents,  to  assure  good  fortune  and  high  education  to  my 
children ;  because  he  has  surrounded  us  with  luxury  and 
refined  pleasure,  at  the  expense  of  his  own  present  and 
future;  because  of  this  long  self-abnegation,  these  years 
of  self-devotion,  is  he  to  be  denied  the  most  elementary 
joys  of  life,  is  his  immolation  to  be  perpetual?  Oh,  I 
have  been  to  blame.  I  have  not  taught  you  how  much 
you  owe  to  your  brother " 

"Mother,  for  pity's  sake — "  Richard  interrupted. 

"I  have  been  to  blame,  Richard,"  she  repeated,  push- 
ing him  away  as  he  tried  to  detain  her,  the  fading  roses 
she  wore  quivering  with  her  quick  breath.  "I  have  been 
selfish  for  my  children.  In  my  anxiety  for  the  younger 
ones,  I  have  forgotten  him.  You  must  remember,  Ger- 
ald and  Adeline,  that  your  poor  father  had  nothing  but 
debts  to  leave,  and  that  but  for  your  brother 's  noble  self- 
sacrifice " 


GATRELL'S    ADVICE  189 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  mother,"  he  remonstrated,  "if 
you  did  but  know  the  pain " 

"She's  right,  Dick.  Mother's  quite  right,"  Gerald 
said  heartily.  "You're  a  brick,  and  let  us  all  sponge 
upon  you  and  devour  you. ' ' 

"We  have  been  horrid,"  Adeline  said.  "But  it  is 
your  own  fault.  You  give  us  everything  without  stint, 
so  we  want  more.  The  way  of  the  world,  Dickie,  dear. ' ' 

"No,  mother,"  Richard  returned,  gravely  and  very 
sadly.  "It  was  my  plain  and  simple  duty  to  do  what 
was  possible  for  the  children,  my  plain  and  simple  duty 
to — my  stepfather.  No  one  knows  or  can  know  what  I 
owe  to  him,"  he  added,  with  sudden  emotion. 

Edith  looked  up,  startled,  in  his  moved  face ;  and  Ger- 
ald was  not  less  amazed.  Then  Gerald  remembered  a 
December  night  of  the  last  year.  He  had  wanted  Rich- 
ard, and  hearing  that  he  was  somewhere  about  the  place, 
went  out  and  hunted  about  till  he  came  within  sight  of 
the  granite  cross.  It  was  a  bitter,  black  night,  shot  with 
moon-gleams  and  torn  by  roaring  wind.  The  pines 
shuddered  and  swayed  in  the  blast,  their  branches  creak- 
ing and  clashing  together,  with  thunder  like  breaking 
surf  in  their  surging  tops.  Outlined  upon  the  blackness 
of  their  shadowy  aisles,  gleamed  the  thorn-wreathed 
granite  cross  in  sudden  moonlight  pouring  down  the  steep 
of  a  fissured  cloud,  to  be  as  suddenly  swallowed  again 
in  darkness,  as  the  fissure  closed,  but  not  too  suddenly 
for  the  picture  to  be  engraved  upon  Gerald's  memory. 
The  figure,  standing  motionless  with  bowed  head  by  the 
cross  in  that  sudden  light,  was  certainly  Richard's  and 
no  phantom.  He  could  swear  to  it.  Yet  there  was 
something  weird  and  phantasmal  in  the  moonlit  vision; 
the  pine-trees  moaned  round  it  in  voices  of  human  agony ; 
the  vast  pall  of  overarching  night  shuddered  as  it  closed 
above  it ;  the  winds  rose,  like  flutes  and  horns  above  the 
bass  of  rolling  drums,  and  wailed  over  it.  Richard 
mourning  for  his  stepfather;  and  after  all  these  years; 
and  whv  ? 
13 


190  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"What  I  owe  to  him,"  Rosny  repeated  in  his  deep  and 
deeply  moved  voice.  "He  was  kind  to  me,"  he  added. 
"I  never  remember  being  struck  by  him — yet  I  must 
often  have  deserved  it.  And  a  stepson  is  not  a  pleasant 
relation,  mind  you " 

"Or  a  stepfather,"  Edith  interposed.  "And  you 
were  always  perfect  to  him." 

"Ah!  Muffie,  you  don't  know.  Now,  don't  cry, 
there's  a  good  Muff.  It's  late ;  these  girls  ought  to  be  in 
bed." 

Before  the  dews  were  well  dried  from  the  grass  or  the 
sunbeams  had  lost  their  first  softness  next  morning, 
Richard  was  in  Gatrell's  garden  across  the  road,  whence 
he  could  see  the  pine-trees,  motionless  and  dark  against 
a  pure  morning  sky,  and  pierced  by  many  a  long  shaft  of 
sunlight,  one  of  which  struck  full  on  the  rose-covered 
cross  at  the  end  of  a  red-stemmed  vista.  The  cottage 
sat  among  its  flowers  opposite  the  house  and  grounds,  as 
if  to  keep  watch  on  all  the  comings  and  goings,  it  seemed 
to  Richard. 

"Your  garden  is  well-stocked  and  flourishing,"  he 
said  to  Gatrell.  "Everything  seems  to  thrive  here  so 
much  better  than  with  us. ' ' 

"Aye,  to  be  sure,  it  do.  It's  the  land.  Yourn's  a 
sight  poorer.  We  strikes  a  lie  of  good,  loamy  soil  over 
here.  Then  it's  fine  and  lew;  we  lies  open  to  the  south. 
Look  at  this  plum-tree.  I  never  see  another  like  'en; 
it's  entirely  bowed  down.  You're  bright  and  early  this 
morning,  Mr.  Rosny." 

"  It 's  the  prime  of  the  day. ' ' 

"I  allows  it  is.  However  volk  can  bide  abed  till 
pretty  nigh  noon  beats  me.  'Tis  that  fresh  and  lively 
avore  the  dew 's  off,  the  air  is  that  vine  and  heartsome ; 
the  bubbles  ain't  gone  out  of  't,  froth  ain't  glowed 
away,  so  to  speak.  Sun's  finer,  too;  nail  a  rose  agen 
a  east  wall  and  he'll  thrive  and  throw  out  bloom.  Look 
at  this  here  Wilfrid  Lawson  nigh  the  southeast  win- 
dow. There's  Deborah  dressing  bacon  inside;  power- 


GATRELL'S   ADVICE  191 

ful  hot  she  do  zim,  poor  ooman!  You'll  step  inside, 
sir?" 

"Not  this  morning.     I  bring  you  news,  Gatrell." 

' '  Well,  there,  'taint  news  to  me.  I  reckon  'tis  Miss 
Musgrave. ' ' 

"Wrong.  She  is  married;  but  that's  not  my  news. 
I  am  thinking  of  marriage  myself, ' '  he  said  with  a  shade 
of  apology  in  his  voice. 

"The  dickens  you  be?  "Well,  there,  you've  knocked 
the  breath  clean  out  o'  me  this  time.  This  here  is  a 
hearen,  so  to  speak.  So  ee  be  gwine  to  be  married,  sir? 
Matrimony  is  a  honorable  estate,  sure  enough.  It  is  not 
good  for  man  to  be  aloan,  and  mis  'ble  bad  it  is  for  woman- 
kind. But  you've  knocked  me  clean  off  my  thoughtful 
foundation,  sir.  I  onexpected  this  here  of  ee.  Set  down 
on  the  bench,  Mr.  Rosny,  will  ee?  Sun's  warmish  by 
now.  So  ee  be  gwine  to  be  married?  Clean  off  o'  my 
thoughtful  foundations  be  I  knocked. ' ' 

The  bench  was  in  a  sweet-smelling  hedge,  tangled  with 
brier  and  honeysuckle,  and  shaded  by  a  gnarled  apple- 
tree  set  thick  with  fruit.  Gatrell  let  himself  down  on 
to  it  and  stared  straight  before  him  at  the  gooseberry 
bushes  and  sweet  herbs  and  rows  of  peas,  with  his  sinewy 
brown  hands  stretched  on  his  knee,  his  wrinkled  face 
startled  out  of  its  habitual  wodenness. 

Eichard  sat  bending  forward  a  little,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  grassy  path,  whence  the  dew  was  not  wholly  dried, 
his  face  shadowed  by  a  straw  hat.  The  day  was  still  with 
the  double  stillness  of  windless  summer  and  country  Sun- 
day ;  there  was  scarcely  a  sound  but  the  hum  of  bees ;  a 
field  of  barley  near  had  no  ripple  on  its  velvety  surface ; 
even  the  pines  waited  in  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  with- 
out a  sigh  or  a  tremor  in  all  their  blackness. 

' '  No  one  can  be  more  surprised  than  myself,  Gatrell, ' ' 
he  said  presently.  "I  wonder  how  I  dared.  But  it 
came  before  I  knew  where  I  was.  But  ought  I,  dare  I, 
do  this  thing?  What  right  have  I  to  take  this  fresh 
young  life  and  mingle  it  with  my  own  stained  and  sordid 


192  RICHARD   ROSNY 

stream?  How  dare  I  accept  this  exquisite  joy?  She  is 
young  and  beautiful  and  good;  innocent  of  even  the 
knowledge  of  evil.  How  can  I  break  her  heart?  How 
can  I  spoil  her  happiness?" 

"Do  ec  zim  entirely  drawed  to  the  maid?  Be  ee 
bound  up  in  the  thoughts  of  her?  Do  ee  zim  as  though 
victual  and  drink  couldn't  make  a  man  of  ee  without 
she?" 

"I  do,  indeed.  But  what  right  have  I  to  such  feel- 
ings? Gatrell,  you  know  all.  You  know  what  I  owe  to 
others.  You  know  what  I  am,  oh !  you  know ! ' ' 

His  voice  faltered,  his  head  sank  in  his  hands,  a  dew- 
drop  flashed  in  the  grass  at  his  feet,  and  another. 

"Do  she  know?"  the  gardener  asked,  solemnly  and 
slowly,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  seemed  to  be  swal- 
lowing something. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  lifting  his  head.  "Yes,"  he 
added,  seeming  to  gain  calm  and  confidence  as  he  spoke. 
' '  She  knows  what  I  am,  knows  all.  But — no  names. ' ' 

Gatrell  chewed  a  piece  of  grass  for  some  seconds  and 
cleared  his  voice  before  speaking  again. 

"Do  ee  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins?"  he  asked, 
turning  to  look  on  Richard's  face. 

"I  hardly  catch  your  drift.  What  has  that  to  do 
with  it?" 

' '  What  right  have  anybody  to  be  happy  when  it  comes 
to  that?  You'll  stand  up  in  church  this  morning,  Mr. 
Rosny,  and  you'll  say  'I  believe  in  the  forgiveness  of 
sins.'  I  reckon  ee  won't  be  tellin' no  lie.  When  but  in 
your  young  youth  you  was  overtook  by  the  sinful  temp- 
tations of  mankind.  You  done  wrong.  What  you  done 
was  ter'ble  wrong,  as  nobody  can  gainsay.  Be  you  sorry 
for  what  you  done?  Have  ye  turned  away  from  the 
wickedness  you  committed,  and  have  ye  done  what  is 
lawful  and  right?  I  reckon  you  have.  Ten  year  long 
and  more  have  ee  lived  without  spot  or  blemish.  Ten 
long  year  have  ye  ben  in  zarra  for  zin.  Ten  year  long 
have  ye  tried  to  make  up " 


GATRELL'S   ADVICE  193 

* '  Tried  1     Ah !  but  nothing  can ;  nothing,  nothing. ' ' 

"Do  ee  mind  when  you  throwed  stoans  dro  my  glass 
vrame?  'I  forgive  ee,'  I  says,  'but  doan't  ee  do  it  no 
more ! '  You  was  for  giving  of  me  all  your  pocket  money 
till  ee'd  a-paid  for  the  glass.  'I  forgive  ee,'  I  says,  'for 
ee  cain't  maake  they  seedlings  grow  no  more.'  I  mind 
well.  But  you  done  what  you  could.  The  seeds  was 
some  Deborah's  brother  brought  from  abroad.  I  never 
seen  the  like  of  them  no  more,  nor  never  shall.  But  I 
forgave  ee.  When  I  gave  ee  a  apple  or  may  be  a  plum 
after  that,  did  ee  zaay:  'I  cain't  take  en,  Gatrell,  along 
of  they  seedlings  I  cain  't  bring  back '  ?  I  '11  warrant  you 
never  zaid  no  such  foolishness. ' ' 

The  cottage  roof,  red  and  gold  and  purple  in  full 
morning  sunshine,  was  firm  against  the  black-green  pine- 
trees;  a  spiral  of  delicate  wood  smoke  wound  with  aro- 
matic scent  from  the  chimney  and  was  lest  in  the  trans- 
parent azure  of  a  sky,  whence  the  song  of  larks  rippled 
as  if  from  an  over-brimming  fountain  of  delight;  fields 
and  hills  and  woods,  and  a  little  curve  filled  with  azure 
sea,  laughed  in  the  broad  splendor  of  sunlight  and  sweet 
air;  cows  in  the  meadows  and  nibbling  sheep  on  downs; 
circling  swifts  and  swallows;  bees  drowsily  murmuring 
and  airy  butterflies  flitting  in  graceful  circles ;  all  spoke 
of  the  joyous,  ungrudging  bounty  of  nature,  of  the  un- 
covenanted  delights  of  life. 

Sympathy  wth  the  peace  at  the  heart  of  all  things 
throbbed  in  Richard's  breast;  his  spirit  was  uplifted 
within  him.  Was  he  indeed  forgiven  ?  What  if  this  un- 
expected joy  were  a  pledge  of  pardon?  His  penance  had 
been  long  and  arduous,  his  penitence  deep  and  sincere. 
No  thought  of  personal  happiness,  after  that  one  last 
bitter  cry  to  Kathleen  at  their  parting,  had  been  in  his 
mind  ever  since  he  had  arisen,  like  the  prodigal  son,  and 
gone  to  his  Father.  He  had  thought  to  be  alone  all  his 
life  long,  and  rightly  alone.  Surely  some  angel  of  pity 
and  pardon  had  been  charged  with  this  sudden,  unasked, 
almost  undesired,  gift.  Gatrell  was  right,  forgiveness 


194  RICHARD   ROSNY 

is  forgiveness ;  it  is  mockery  to  go  on  repenting  and  ask- 
ing pardon,  and  still  rest  under  the  ban  of  the  unf  orgiven. 
Shall  mortal  man  be  more  just  than  his  Maker?  The 
heavens  spread  wide  and  clear,  deep  upon  deep,  space 
upon  space,  illimitable,  unclouded  and  free ;  they  seemed 
to  open  vista  upon  vista  to  the  yearning  gaze  that  lost 
itself  in  their  endless  depths,  and  calm  and  holy  hope 
seemed  to  stream  down  abundant,  inexhaustible,  upon 
the  flooding  overpour  of  light  and  air ;  the  summer  woods 
and  fields,  hills  and  homesteads,  and  homeless  sea,  all  so 
exquisitely  arrayed  in  the  beauty  of  morning  and  warmth 
of  golden  light ;  all  spoke,  as  in  one  mighty,  many-toned 
symphony,  not  of  an  austere  and  implacably  just  judge, 
but  of  a  loving  Father,  slow  to  anger,  of  great  kindness 
and  repenting  him  of  the  evil.  The  east  seemed  very  far 
from  the  west  and  the  heavens  infinitely  higher  than  the 
earth  on  that  balmy  July  Sunday,  the  very  grass  at  his 
feet,  a  living  jewel  in  the  sunlight,  spoke  of  mercy  and 
forgiveness. 

But  in  the  very  heart  of  the  glory,  gray  above  rounded 
leafage,  rose  the  little  spire  of  Ingrestone  Church,  and 
there  in  its  shadow  were  graves,  invisible  but  never  for- 
gotten. They  were  there,  indeed,  but  the  dead  should 
bury  their  dead,  while  the  living  lived,  joy  of  joys !  they 
lived  a  sweet,  real  life,  no  dreary,  dragging  masque  of 
death,  but  true  life. 

' '  I  never  see  no  religious  holiness  in  being  miserabler 
than  what  is  ordered  for  volk, ' '  added  Gatrell ;  ' '  I  cain  't 
abide  the  sight  of  plants  cankered  and  vrosted  and  eat 
up  by  worms  myself.  Look  at  that  quarantine.  Loaded 
up  wi  vruit  he  is,  and  narra  apple  upon  en  but  what's 
hround  and  hrid  and  zound.  He  do  zim  entirely  as 
though  he  enjoyed  the  life  of  en ;  his  apples  do  plim  out 
for  joy  in  sunshine  afore  the  seeing  eye,  in  a  manner 
of  speaken.  I  be  no  scholard,  sir,  on'y  a  plain  laabouren 
man;  but  anybody  do  have  their  thoughts,  watchen  the 
comen  on  of  things  and  the  manner  of  growth  the  Al- 
mighty have  ordered  to  'em  all,  and  the  spring  and  vail 


GATRELL'S   ADVICE  195 

of  the  year  and  the  waays  of  the  sun  and  hrain  and 
vrost,  and  the  life  that  doth  spring  out  o '  dead,  dry  zeed 
after  their  kind.  When  I  think  of  it  all,  it  do  come  over 
me  like  this,  as  though  One  above  was  kinder  than  man- 
kind, and  as  though  he  wished  well  to  what  he  made." 

' '  Still — still,  there  are  things  we  can  not  forgive  our- 
selves, things  we  should  never  forget.  At  least  such 
as  I " 

"I  never  zeen  no  zense  in  grizzling  overmuch,  Mr. 
Kosny.  Sinners  we  be,  and  sinners  we  'm  bound  to  mind 
we  be.  But  if  so  be  as  a  man  cain't  rejoice  with  his  sins 
forgiven  and  Heaven  vor  'n  to  go  to,  he 's  made  of  pretty 
poor  stuff,  I  allow.  The  more  we'm  forgiven,  the  more 
we  'm  bound  to  be  thankful. ' ' 

"  Whatever 's  come  to  Mr.  Rosny?"  Deborah  asked, 
when  the  gate  had  clicked  to  behind  him,  and  Gatrell  had 
clumped  in  to  breakfast  ' '  'S  vaace  is  all  lit  up  and  he  do 
step  out  with  a  jounce.  He  puts  me  in  mind  of  Christian 
with  the  burden  veil  off  of  'em. ' ' 

' '  To  think, ' '  Gerald  was  saying  to  Adeline  under  the 
linden-trees;  "to  think  of  Richard  turning  selfish  and 
leaving  us  all  in  the  lurch. ' ' 

' '  To  think  of  his  being  so  poor  after  all  these  years, ' ' 
continued  Adeline.  "Money-making,  as  mother  says, 
seems  to  have  got  into  his  blood  and  infected  all  his 
thoughts  and  all  for  nothing.  Poverty  is  respectable  in 
some  cases;  but  poor  bankers  and  manufacturers  can't 
justify  their  existence.  I  dislike  poverty.  It's  degrad- 
ing to  think  of  the  price  of  things.  That  is  the  true 
~bourgeois  note. ' ' 

"After  all,  commerce  is  a  taint,  Addie.  Some  fellow 
defines  a  gentleman,  a  man  whose  family  has  been  ar- 
miger,  entitled  to  bear  arms  for  three  generations  without 
a  taint  of  commerce.  Now  one  hears  everlastingly  of 
Dick 's  beastly  biscuits,  and  after  all  they  don 't  pay.  No 
gentleman  wants  things  to  pay.  No  gentleman  thinks  of 
what  he  spends.  But  that's  where  the  taint  shows  in 
Dick.  He 's  always  thinking  of  money.  Bad  form.  The 


196  RICHARD    ROSNY 

more  one  thinks  of  it  the  more  one  frets  that  a  man  in  his 
position  has  no  right  to  marry.  It's  beastly  hard  on  us 
all.  Of  course,  as  mother  says,  he  needn't  have  done  a 
thing  for  us.  He  might  have  let  us  go  to  board  schools. 
But  then  he  7ms;  he's  brought  us  up  to  expectations. 
And  it 's  jolly  hard  to  be  tipped  out  of  it  all  at  once. ' ' 

Some  of  these  views  he  developed  later  to  Kichard, 
who  wished  him  to  understand  that  the  necessity  of  re- 
trenchment was  entirely  unconnected  with  his  proposed 
marriage. 

"The  income  I  mentioned  last  night  will  cover  the 
usual  expenses,"  he  said,  "but  it  won't  run  to  fresh 
ones." 

' '  You  have  me  there,  Dick, ' '  Gerald  said,  with  a  good- 
tempered  laugh.  "But  polo  must  be  played — you  can't 
be  odd  man  out  in  a  regiment — and  ponies  are  always  sur- 
prising you.  You  never  know  what  they'll  do  next; 
sometimes  they  fight  like  fun.  I  do  assure  you,  Dick, 
I'm  not  the  plunger  you  think.  You  must  do  as  others 
do  in  the  service." 

"Why  not  learn  to  say  no?" 

"You  can't.  You  can't  be  always  asking  for  the 
bill.  And  when  it  comes  you  can  only  pay  and  look 
pleasant. ' ' 

' '  But  I  can 't  see  the  necessity  of  polo  even  in  infantry 
regiments,  Gerald.  Maxwell  tells  me  he  wishes  the 
youngsters  were  not  so  keen  on  it. ' ' 

' '  But  he 's  the  colonel  and  bound  to  be  like  that.  You 
don 't  know  how  infernally  shoppy  he  is.  Maxwell  thinks 
of  nothing  but  soldiering,  wants  to  turn  the  regiment 
into  a  sort  of  staff  college.  He'd  have  us  grind  all  day 
and  do  with  three  weeks '  leave  in  the  year. ' ' 

"But  you  chose  the  service,  Gerald.  Soldiering  was 
the  only  thing  for  yon.  It  was  to  be  its  own  reward. " 

' '  Look  here,  old  lad, ' '  Gerald  said,  with  earnest  sad- 
ness, "you  want  your  breakfast.  A  good  feed  will  bring 
you  to  a  better  frame  of  mind.  No  man  is  fit  to  speak  to 
till  he  has  been  fed." 


THE     SLEEPING     PRINCESS 

THE  part  Richard  had  come  to  play  in  his  family  was 
less  gratifying  than  he  could  have  wished.  He  was  fully 
aware  that  his  presence  in  the  house  was  considered  as 
more  or  less  a  domestic  calamity.  No  one  cares  to  play 
kill-joy  and  marplot.  No  is  often  the  hardest  possible 
word  to  say. 

To  make  "a  happy  fireside  clime"  for  Edith  and 
educate  the  children  properly  was  the  simple  aim  for 
which  he  had  at  first  lived  and  worked  in  his  new  pro- 
fession, in  which  he  had  soon  learned  to  take  interest  and 
find  excitement,  if  not  pleasure.  And  when  things  pros- 
pered, almost  turning  to  gold  at  his  touch,  was  added  the 
wish  to  clear  off  Belton's  debt  to  the  bank.  On  that  fol- 
lowed commercial  schemes  on  a  philanthropic  basis,  such 
as  what  his  brother  termed  his  "pious  pubs,"  an  asso- 
ciation that  carried  on  public  houses  by  salaried  mana- 
gers who  had  no  interest  in  the  sale  of  drinks,  but  much 
in  that  of  food. 

In  these  houses  nobody  was  "licensed,"  as  his  scan- 
dalized boyhood  had  rashly  interpreted,  "  to  be  drunk  on 
the  premises,"  but  only  to  drink  in  moderation.  The 
houses,  respectable  clubs  for  respectable  working  men 
and  women,  had  succeeded,  and  after  locking  up  capital 
for  a  time  were  beginning  to  pay  their  way.  Such 
schemes  as  this  made  it  imperative  to  limit  the  family  ex- 
penditure, which  at  first  had  expanded  with  the  expan- 
sion of  income ;  upon  attempting  this,  Rosny  learned  that 
wealth  depends,  not  upon  income,  but  expenditure,  and 
discovered  that  the  more  money  he  made  the  poorer  he 

107 


198  RICHARD   ROSNY 

grew,  until  the  struggle  on  the  one  hand  to  make  money, 
and  on  the  other  to  limit  expenses,  was  wearing  him  out. 
How  it  came  about  that  his  family  had  such  amazing 
necessities,  such  a  horse-leech  appetite,  was  an  insoluble 
mystery  to  him.  Adrian  Rosny  had  brought  up  his  chil- 
dren on  a  moderate  income  without  this  perpetual  war- 
fare, he  told  him ;  Godfrey  Belton  had  had  no  such  expe- 
rience in  his  family.  It  might  have  been  heredity.  Edith's 
inability  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  money 's  worth,  together 
with  her  scorn  of  applied  arithmetic,  was  a  constant  thorn 
in  the  flesh.  This  had  to  be  very  tenderly  borne  with 
and  the  painful  experiences  of  Horace  Belton 's  wife  had 
to  be  remembered.  In  the  first  dreariness  of  shattered 
hopes  and  ruined  prospects  it  had  been  a  solace,  the  near- 
est approach  to  happiness,  to  deny  his  mother  nothing; 
to  find  himself  a  sort  of  earthly  providence  or  fairy  god- 
father to  all  her  wishes.  But  the  wishes  grew  with  ful- 
filment and  the  children  with  their  growth.  To  act  the 
part  of  paymaster  and  general  provider  and  nothing 
more,  becomes  wearisome  in  time.  "They  think  me  a 
mere  money-bag, ' '  he  often  complained  to  himself. 

That  was  after  it  had  become  clear  that  Gerald  shirked 
his  company,  and  tolerated  him  as  a  mere  fogy  who 
ought  to  be  shelved  as  decently  as  possible  in  his  own 
house.  This  cut  deep,  from  Gerald,  the  "own  brother" 
of  boyhood.  Archie  was  but  a  boy,  Adeline  a  girl,  but 
Gerald — that  was  another  matter.  That  Gerald  should 
order  this,  alter  that  and  improve  the  other  at  the  Pines 
was  very  well ;  but  when  it  came  to  shrinking  from  com- 
panionship, it  hurt.  Such  a  hurt  comes  to  many  a 
father,  who  rears  sons  with  care  and  self-denial  to  find 
that  the  young  man  whose  companionship  was  to  make 
up  for  so  much,  thinks  him  a  bore  and  nuisance  and  has 
not  the  grace  to  conceal  it. 

People  grow  accustomed  to  these  things;  Rosny  had 
soon  come  to  do  so.  When,  as  often  happened  now,  busi- 
ness took  him  to  town,  he  was  less  anxious  to  g£t  home  for 
Sunday,  finding  more  peace  and  refreshment  in  solitude. 


THE   SLEEPING   PRINCESS      199 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  the  strain  of  many  years  of  in- 
cessant activity,  and  one  sunny  Sunday  morning  in  May, 
looking  on  the  fresh  leafage  in  St.  James's  Park,  felt  a 
great  longing  for  fresh  country  air  and  stillness.  Buses 
were  going  out  of  town  with  various  printed  labels  ob- 
scuring their  week-day  destinations,  and  on  one  of  these 
the  words  "Putney,  Barnes  and  Richmond"  summoned 
visions  of  fresh  green  park  and  cool  blue  river  so  invi- 
tingly that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  take  train  to 
Richmond  and  there  step  into  a  dainty  pleasure-boat  that 
almost  went  of  itself  on  the  strong  insetting  of  the  tide. 

It  was  fresh  and  rural  after  London,  in  spite  of  crowd- 
ing fleets  of  gay  pleasure-boats,  manned  with  great  vari- 
ety, and  steered  with  frequent  recklessness,  steamboats 
black  with  humanity,  tinkling  with  band  music  and  plow- 
ing the  still  green  river  into  tumbling  furrows,  and  fussy 
launches,  hissing  unexpectedly  along  the  liquid  highway 
with  miniature  breakers  in  their  wake. 

It  was  quiet  and  peaceful  on  the  broad  breast  of  the 
river  winding  between  green  banks,  overshadowed  by 
trees  in  early  May  freshness,  or  spread  with  deep  mead- 
ows flooded  with  buttercups;  with  here  a  historic  man- 
sion, hidden  in  blossomed  chestnut  and  gold-burgeoned 
oak;  there  a  villa  with  gay  parterre  and  tree-shadowed 
lawn ;  here  a  village  and  there  a  little  town ;  everywhere 
lavish  glory  of  bloom,  snow-white  of  May,  drooping  gold 
of  laburnum  and  warm  tints  of  copper  beech  and  trans- 
lucent poplar.  And  though  the  trail  of  suburban  wealth 
and  cockney  pleasuring  was  over  all,  and  Pope's  villa 
seemed  to  wear  a  cynic  smile  at  the  longevity  of  its  own 
artificiality,  here  and  there  were  quiet  fields  over  which 
larks  sang,  as  if  villas  had  never  been  or  cities  overflowed 
into  country  sweetness,  where  actual  haystacks  peeped 
out  so  naturally  that  people  grew  sick  for  the  real  coun- 
try and  knew  for  certain  that  it  still  existed.  And  here 
great  variety  of  wild  flowers  brimmed  over  banks  and  ran 
down  into  the  river,  refreshing  eyes  long  jaded  by  the 
gaudy  splendors  of  forced  and  marketed  flowers  with  the 


200  RICHARD    ROSNY 

simplicity  of  cuckoo  buds  and  lady's  smocks.  And 
everywhere  the  cuckoo  himself  said  the  same  thing  he 
said  to  Shakespeare  and  repeated  what  Wordsworth 
heard  him  tell,  but  not  to  the  hills.  Swans  floated  here 
as  majestically  as  on  "still  St.  Mary's  Lake,"  withal  be- 
traying some  stain  of  cockney  greed  in  their  approaches 
to  boats  whence  they  took  ample  largesse  of  bread  and 
biscuit. 

He  sculled  easily  on  the  top  of  the  tide  in  sun  and 
shadow,  soothed  and  calmed  by  the  May  beauty  and  the 
fresh  sound  and  diamond  sparkle  of  dipping  oars,  till 
the  foamy  curve  of  Teddington  Weir  was  reached  and  the 
last  of  the  tide  lost.  Then,  after  a  pause  in  that  fresh- 
ness and  green  shade,  through  the  lock  and  between  green 
fields  with  a  following  wind  to  help,  sometimes  drifting 
before  the  impetus  of  a  spurt,  sometimes  towed  by  lads 
running  along  the  bank,  and  once,  perhaps,  at  Hampton, 
lying  in  sweet  flowery  grass  in  Hawthorn  shade  till  the 
noon  blaze  was  well  past. 

Then  he  glided  peacefully  along,  seeing  and  not  see- 
ing the  holiday  folk  swarming  on  river  and  bank,  wrhen 
his  eye  was  caught  by  a  boat  made  fast  to  the  crooked 
root  of  a  tall  chestnut  turreted  with  bloom,  which  spread 
giant  arms  over  the  water  at  the  foot  of  a  sloping 
meadow.  In  the  boat  was  a  young  woman,  a  mere  girl, 
all  the  pliant  curves  of  her  supple  and  slender  figure  re- 
laxed in  sleep,  with  a  half-spent  sunbeam  flickering  over 
her  face.  As  he  drifted  slowly  by  with  suspended  oars, 
Rosny's  fascinated  gaze  lingered  upon  her  with  wonder- 
ing pleasure.  It  was  monstrous  to  leave  such  a  young 
and  pretty  girl  alone  and  unprotected  and  fast  asleep 
among  the  motley  crowd  on  the  Sunday  river.  His  boat 
stopped  at  the  indignant  thought  and  slowly  swayed 
round  from  stem  to  stern,  while  he  shipped  the  sculls 
and  smoked  and  wondered  about  the  sleeping  girl. 

Some  pleasurers,  racketing  by  with  noisy  rowlocks 
and  splashing  oars,  shouted  and  pointed  to  her  with  wild 
laughter  as  they  passed;  and  Richard,  furious  and  dis- 


THE   SLEEPING   PRINCESS      201 

gusted,  rowed  up  to  the  chestnut  and  lay  alongside  the 
boat  with  the  girl  in  it.  A  smart  little  private  boat  it 
was,  well  cushioned  and  trimly  finished  with  blue-and- 
gold  monograms  on  the  oars.  An  open  book  had  slipped 
from  the  sleeper's  hand  and  showed  the  story  of  Elaine 
to  his  keen  far  sight — "the  fair,"  "the  lovable,"  "the 
lily  maid  of  Astolat. "  The  young  figure,  in  a  simple 
white  gown,  belted  with  silver  clasps  and  closed  at  the 
throat  with  a  white  sailor  tie  and  collar,  was  charming 
in  its  surrounding  of  fresh  greenery  and  bloom,  the  face, 
lightly  flushed  and  serene  as  a  baby's,  more  charming 
still.  A  bunch  of  lily-of-the-valley  was  her  only  orna- 
ment; no  ring  showed  on  her  slim  white  hands,  lying 
loose  in  the  folds  of  the  gown.  The  gentleness  of  sleep 
was  upon  her  young,  innocent  face,  over  which  young 
green  chestnut  leaves  slipped  many  a  soft,  changing 
shadow.  She  made  a  picture  infinitely  calming  and  re- 
freshing to  see,  like  some  gentle  landscape  of  wood  and 
field  stilled  into  deeper  peace  under  the  glamour  of  moon- 
light. The  world's  cares  took  flight,  a  pleasant  hypno- 
tism fell  upon  him  at  the  sight  of  those  sleep-sealed,  blue- 
veined  eyelids  on  the  still  face.  He  could  almost  hear  the 
gentle  sound  of  even  breath  stirring  the  lily  bells  and 
blending  with  the  soft  lapping  of  water  and  the  rich 
song  of  a  nightingale,  that  seemed  as  the  voice  and  heart- 
beat of  all  the  sunny  vitality  of  spring  moving  and  leap- 
ing in  the  surrounding  greenery  and  bloom.  All  was 
so  tranquil  that,  but  for  the  clink  of  rowlocks  and  plash 
of  oars  and  sound  of  passing  voices,  you  might  have 
heard  the  grass  growing  and  buttercups  opening  on  that 
sumptuous  and  melodious  May  afternoon. 

The  restful  posture,  the  pure  outline  of  the  peaceful 
face  and  the  slender  immaturity  of  the  youthful  figure, 
suggested  the  ideal  of  sweet  purity  and  conquering  weak- 
ness, he  had  loved  in  Kathleen.  All  that  was  tender  and 
womanly,  pure  and  graceful,  recalled  her,  now  that  his 
love  had  passed  into  that  sublimated  form  in  which  the 
object  is  no  longer  a  concrete  human  being,  but  an  ab- 


202  RICHARD    ROSNY 

straction  of  qualities,  idealized  by  memory  and  purified 
by  pain  and  longing,  yet  an  abstraction  or  spirituality 
that  constantly  seeks  reembodiment.  He  thought,  with 
a  wild  throb  of  tenderness,  that  Kathleen  herself  might 
be  resting  even  then  in  some  such  green  shade,  forgetting 
the  years  that  had  passed  since  he  saw  her. 

Presently  she  stirred,  smiled  and  murmured  some 
half  articulate  sounds;  then  she  laughed.  "Rosny,"  she 
said,  ' '  yes,  Rosny, ' '  and  slept  deeper.  He  started  at  the 
sound  of  his  name.  Was  this  some  new  development  of 
telepathy,  or  only  fancy  twisting  the  indistinct  utterance 
of  some  other  name  to  his  own.  For  the  day  was  full  of 
enchantments ;  what  dreamy  peace  there  was  in  meadow 
and  sky,  what  glamour  in  the  rare  and  evanescent  tints  of 
fresh,  opened  leafage,  steeped  in  sunlight! 

Es  lluTit  das  fernstc,  tiefste  Thai ; 
Nun,  armes  Herz,  vergiss  dein  Qual. 

But  his  sorrow  must  never  be  forgotten;  hidden  away, 
bravely,  silently  borne,  but  never  quite  forgotten;  there 
lay  the  sting — and  the  healing  balm.  Cares  might  be 
forgotten,  and  plans  and  schemes,  worries  and  labors, 
hopes  and  fears,  failure  and  success,  the  whole  tangle  and 
turmoil  of  the  world's  life,  in  this  enchantment  of  fresh 
unstained  green,  in  the  bird's  wild  warble  and  quick  jug- 
jug,  in  the  clarity  of  blue  sky  and  green  and  blue  river, 
in  the  charm  of  golden  water-break  and  grasses  swayed 
in  the  gentle  wash  of  the  stream,  in  the  cool  green  frame 
of  deep  live  grass,  and  in  the  magic  shadows  and  lights 
playing  over  the  sleeping  girl.  A  butterfly  hovered  over 
her  face  and  fluttered  to  her  lips,  as  if  a  soul  should  enter 
or  escape  them.  A  sound  of  church  bells  circled  melodi- 
ously in  upper  air  and  rippled  down,  sweetened  by  the 
water  they  floated  across ;  shadows  shifted  and  gathered 
purply  warmth ;  sunbeams  grew  golden ;  then  at  last  the 
enchantment  culminated  in  the  opening  of  dark  eyes, 
liquid  and  soft  with  dreams,  and  a  flash  of  thought  and 
feeling  illuminated  the  sealed  mystery  of  the  face. 


THE    SLEEPING    PRINCESS      203 

A  long,  silent,  smiling  gaze  into  the  grave,  bearded 
face  before  her,  a  sudden  rush  of  red  over  her  face  to  the 
spring  of  her  hair,  and  the  young  girl  started  up,  and 
Rosny  came  to  himself  and  emerged  from  his  waking 
dream. 

' '  I  beg  your  pardon, ' '  he  said.  ' '  You  were  asleep  and 
alone,  and  roughs  were  passing;  so  I  brought  to  along- 
side of  you." 

' '  Asleep  ? ' '  she  said ;  ' '  alone  ?  Why,  where  are — "Was 
I  really  asleep  ? ' '  Rosny 's  smile  made  her  draw  out  her 
watch.  " It  was  most  kind.  Oh!  Surely  not  asleep " 

"Why,  Dick,"  cried  a  gay  voice  from  the  bank;  "you 
of  all  people?" 

He  turned,  his  ear  catching  the  light  rustle  of  skirts 
over  the  deep  grass,  to  see  Annis  Rosny  coming  down  to 
the  river. 

' '  How  did  you  find  us  ? "  asked  a  male  voice,  at  which 
he  recognized  an  elderly  naval  officer  under  whom  he  had 
served.  "Glad  to  see  you.  I  hope  Evelyn  has  per- 
suaded you  to  row  back  and  dine  ?  Early  people  dine  at 
seven  or  thereabouts.  Not  had  time,  Evelyn?  Well, 
now,  Rosny,  you  will  then.  Very  friendly  of  you  to  look 
us  up  like  this.  And  you  didn't  know  your  cousin  was 
staying  with  us?  Where's  that  lazy  beggar,  Will,  Eve- 
lyn? Tired  of  waiting?  Too  bad  of  us  to  be  so  long. 
We  lost  our  bearings  and  went  a  couple  of  miles  out  of 
our  course.  You  may  thank  Nancy  for  that. ' ' 

"This  is  a  perfect  fairy  tale,"  Rosny  said,  leisurely 
dipping  his  oars,  when,  with  Evelyn  transferred  to  the 
stern  of  his  own  boat  and  the  other  two  in  that  moored 
to  the  chestnut,  they  pushed  off  for  a  little  water-side 
villa — "I  don't  even  know  the  name  of  the  sleeping 
princess. ' ' 

"I  am  Captain  Arbury's  niece,  Evelyn  Arbury,"  was 
the  quick  reply,  with  a  pretty  flush.  "And  the  guardian 
knight — turns  out  to  be  Nancy 's  often-mentioned  cousin, 
Richard  Rosny.  It  is  just  like  a  story-book." 

"Hardly  knight,"  he  corrected,  with  the  caressing 


204  RICHARD    ROSNY 

voice  used  to  little  children.  "Rather  some  benevolent 
old  ogre  or  dragon,  fit  to  guard  enchanted  treasure  under 
magic  trees  and  deliver  distressed  beauty  from  evil  spells, 
else  capable  of  eating  people  up  alive  with  a  scrunch." 

"But  ogres  are  ugly,  and  dragons  have  horrid  teeth 
and  claws  and  great  wings,  and  are  covered  ail  over  with 
dreadful  scales." 

Dragons  sometimes  travel  incognito  with  wings  and 
tails  and  teeth  packed  away  in  portmanteaus,  and  ogres 
themselves  are  subject  to  enchantment,  veiling  their  ogre- 
ishness  in  decent  old-gentlemanly  respectability,  Rosny 
told  her,  as  they  shot  over  the  clear  green  water,  Evelyn 
with  the  ropes  and  Richard  bending  to  the  sculls,  and  a 
silver  swan,  with  upstanding  wings  full  spread,  floated 
on  either  side  of  the  boat  like  an  escort,  or  like  two  en- 
chanted princes  in  their  train.  Anything  might  have 
happened  on  that  enchanted  afternoon. 

He  heard,  during  the  short  passage,  that  she  had 
neither  father  nor  mother  and  was  an  only  child;  she 
lived  with  this  uncle,  who  had  no  daughters,  but  many 
sons.  They  had  taken  the  riverside  villa  for  the  sum- 
mer ;  they  moved  about  a  good  deal,  even  following  Cap- 
tain Arbury  to  foreign  stations ;  it  was  a  little  unsettling 
to  have  no  fixed  home.  The  vivid  young  face  and  dark 
and  dreamy  eyes  grew  wistful  with  the  recital.  He 
thought  it  more  than  probable  that  "the  child"  was  of 
little  account  in  the  uncle's  household,  and  was  unconsid- 
ered  and  very  lonely. 

By  the  time  he  stepped  into  his  boat  again  in  the 
moonlight,  though  he  had  exchanged  no  second  word  with 
her,  he  seemed  to  have  known  and  pitied  "the  child" 
for  years. 

It  seemed  only  natural  to  have  promised  to  dine  and 
sleep  at  the  Lindens  instead  of  going  straight  home  on 
the  following  Tuesday.  The  next  Sunday,  being  Nancy's 
last  with  the  Arburys,  he  Avas  easily  persuaded  to  spend 
by  the  riverside ;  it  was  not  far  for  a  Saturday  to  Monday 
visit,  and  his  old  chief  had  found  many  things  to  talk 


THE   SLEEPING   PRINCESS      205 

over  with  him.  The  visit  of  an  old  messmate  to  the  Lin- 
dens furnished  an  excuse  for  another  week-end;  and, 
after  that,  a  Saturday  river-picnic  in  a  launch  to  Clieve- 
den  Woods  seemed  only  a  proper  return  for  so  much 
hospitality.  Evelyn  had  spoken  of  the  pleasantness  of 
such  excursions. 

He  was  very  sorry  for  the  solitary  girl,  who  seemed 
an  alien  in  her  uncle 's  house,  and  was  evidently  regarded 
as  such  by  the  uncle's  wife.  He  was  more  than  glad  to 
see  her  brighten  at  his  coming  and  smile  over  the  bon- 
bons and  flowers  he  brought  her.  Nancy  had  admitted 
that  Evelyn  was  not  happy  and  felt  her  dependence 
deeply;  it  is  delightful  to  give  ever  so  little  pleasure  to 
those  who  have  little.  Besides,  "the  child"  was  attrac- 
tive and  companionable ;  all  she  did  or  said  seemed  grace- 
ful and  sweet ;  her  presence  gave  him  a  pale  twilight  hap- 
piness ;  she  was  so  strangely  like  Kitty,  though  her  eyes, 
instead  of  being  blue  and  calm,  were  dark  and  dreamy. 
In  church,  standing  at  her  side  and  hearing  her  voice  in 
the  hymns,  he  seemed  to  hear  Kitty's  again.  He  knew 
that  he  went  to  the  Lindens  more  for  the  sight  of  Evelyn 
than  for  long  discussions  and  reminiscences  with  her 
uncle,  but  the  gladness  he  brought  on  her  face  he  thought 
nothing  more  than  what  the  kindness  of  some  uncle  or 
godfather  might  give.  The  "responsibilities"  to  which 
Gerald  referred  had  aged  him ;  he  seemed  to  belong  to  an 
older  generation  than  any  of  the  young  people  he  met. 
Evelyn  would  naturally  regard  him  as  an  elderly  rela- 
tive. But  his  manner  grew  more  tender  and  caressing 
than  he  knew,  and  his  eyes  followed  her  with  Kitty  Mus- 
grave's  memory  in  them.  That  look  in  his  eyes  made 
Mrs.  Arbury  tell  her  husband  that  it  would  be  an  excel- 
lent match,  far  beyond  what  could  be  expected  for  Evelyn. 

"My  niece  will  have  nothing,"  Captain  Arbury  told 
Rosny  that  evening  in  the  garden ; ' '  but  she  is  a  good  girl 
and  clever,  and  I  don 't  like  the  thought  of  losing  her. ' ' 

' '  I  should  think  not, ' '  he  replied ;  ' '  but  she  seems  to 
be  very  well.     I  hope  she  is  not  consumptive." 
It 


206  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"I  hope  not.  Sickness  and  death  are  not  usually 
suggested  by  the  sight  of  handsome  young  women, ' '  was 
the  enigmatical  reply. 

"What  could  he  mean?"  Eosny  afterward  asked 
Nancy. 

"Mean?  He  meant  'hands  off  or  come  to  the  point. 
No  trifling  with  young  affections  on  these  premises. '  ' 

"Nonsense,  Nancy.  He  couldn't  think  that — at  my 
age  and  at  hers.  Such  an  idea  never  entered  my  mind. ' ' 

"How  absurd  you  are,  Dick!  It  is  high  time  a  few 
ideas  entered  your  mind — as  they  have  other  people's. 
You  are  only  thirty-two  or  three;  Evelyn  is  nearly 
twenty ;  and  you  have  paid  her  marked  attention.  Why 
should  you  go  to  the  Lindens  so  often  but  for  her? 
Everybody  sees  it.  How  could  it  be  otherwise?" 

"  Oh  I  confound  them  all.  Then,  thanks  to  these  peep- 
ing Toms,  I  must  stay  away,  Nance,  and  it's  a  bore,  that's 
all." 

"That's  not  all  by  any  means,  Richard.  Somebody 
will  have  a  heartache  if  you  stay  away  now.  And  I  am 
not  sure  that  you  can  stay  away  now  in  honor. ' ' 

"Dear  Nancy,  you  can't  mean  this  seriously,  you  who 
know.  She  couldn't  think  of  me.  And  if  she  did — bet- 
ter a  heartache  now " 

"But  why  any  heartache  at  all?  Why  should  you 
not  both  be  happy  ?  Oh !  I  know  what  you  think  you  owe 
to  those  children,  and  I  don't  say  you  are  wrong.  But, 
if  you  have  little  to  offer  a  wife,  she  has  nothing,  and  is 
quite  unworldly.  And  she  is  not  happy  at  home.  And 
— well,  it  will  go  hard  with  her,  I  am  afraid.  You  would 
be  happier  and  better  with  a  home  of  your  own.  Give  up 
these  ascetic  notions,  Richard,  and  live  a  wholesome, 
human,  Christian  life. ' ' 

"Christian?"  he  repeated,  with  a  long  and  deeply  sad 
look. 

' '  Go  once  more, ' '  she  said  gently,  but  he  refused. 

The  effort  not  to  go  was  great  and  surprisingly  pain- 
ful; every  energy  seemed  paralyzed  by  the  necessity  of 


THE   SLEEPING   PRINCESS      207 

banishing  the  young  face  that  was  so  like  Kitty 's  from  his 
mind.  And  Kitty  herself  was  about  to  be  married  and 
must  be  forgotten.  Besides,  Evelyn  was  more  like  Kitty 
than  Kitty  herself.  Only,  if  he  had  hurt  her,  as  Nancy 
did — but  such  a  thought  was  madness. 

The  train  in  which  he  chanced  to  be  during  some  such 
reflections  as  that,  stopped  at  Baker  Street  for  the  usual 
half  minute,  with  a  simultaneous  ejection  of  passengers 
from  already  opened  doors,  and  the  usual  hurried  troop- 
ing to  the  stairs  of  one  human  current,  while  another 
surged  into  the  scarcely  arrested  carriages.  Rosny,  going 
with  unobservant  eyes  and  abstracted  thoughts  along  the 
platform  in  the  stream,  suddenly  looked  at  a  compart- 
ment in  which  some  one  was  trying  to  open  an  obdurate 
door,  and,  darting  toward  it,  wrenched  the  stiff  handle 
round  with  a  violence  to  which  the  door  suddenly  yielded, 
but  not  till  the  train  was  beginning  to  move.  The  pas- 
senger, stepping  too  late  to  the  footboard,  lost  balance 
and  nerve  and  would  have  fallen  but  that  Richard,  run- 
ning by  the  train,  lifted  her  bodily  in  one  arm  to  the 
platform,  before  he  saw  that  it  was  Evelyn  herself. 

He  saw  much  more  than  that  in  the  face  of  the  un- 
nerved girl  who  still  clung  to  him,  while  the  train  swept 
dizily  on  and  vanished  in  the  darkness,  and  he  felt  a 
great  deal  more  still. 

"You  were  frightened,"  he  said  unsteadily  when  he 
had  led  her  to  a  seat. 

"I  was  afraid  of  being  taken  on,"  she  replied,  try- 
ing to  hide  her  tears.  ' '  I  have  to  meet  my  aunt,  and  I 
dropped  my  purse.  And  what  will  they  say?" 

A  few  bantering  words,  an  offer  to  put  her  in  a  cab 
and  good-by,  was  all  that  passed  then.  But  two  long  let- 
ters followed,  one  to  Captain  Arbury  and  one  to  Evelyn, 
and  both  received  an  affirmative  answer. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE     JOY-BELLS     AGAIN 

ONCE  more  Wimbury  joy-bells  rang  out  clear  and 
pure  upon  the  air  of  a  golden  autumn  afternoon,  and 
once  more  the  cottage  was  gay  and  full  of  flowers  in 
honor  of  a  bride,  returning,  not  departing,  this  time. 
The  sea  was  still  and  peaceful,  the  downs  dreamy,  the  dis- 
tance blue,  the  air  warm  with  odor  of  fruit  and  flowers, 
as  on  the  day  when  Richard  stood  at  the  gate,  a  desolate 
child,  to  watch  his  mother's  carriage  disappear  in  the 
dust-clouds  and  listen,  heart-sick  and  deserted,  to  the 
mocking  melody  of  the  exultant  bells  that  had  rung  in 
such  a  long  sequence  of  sorrow. 

It  was  the  mother  who  watched  and  waited  now  to 
that  same  mad  bell  music,  gladly  expectant  of  the  com- 
ing of  her  son  and  his  young  wife.  She  watched  with 
no  impatience  or  misgiving,  remembering  her  own  wed- 
ding-bells and  her  own  home-coming  with  gentle  regret 
and  sweet  sadness,  dashed  with  relief;  all  that  misery 
was  past,  she  was  calm  now  and  content,  happier  than 
ever  in  her  youth.  It  only  troubled  her  that  Richard 
chose  to  live  in  this  frugal  way  and  begin  his  married 
life  in  what  it  pleased  Gerald  to  call  such  ostentatious 
poverty. 

She  had  been  very  happy  in  the  cottage  and  enjoyed 
nothing  so  much  now  as  regretful  tears  over  the  mem- 
ories with  which  it  was  filled ;  her  happiest  days  had  been 
spent,  her  most  sacred  feelings  experienced,  there,  she 
often  said,  but  no  earthly  power  would  have  induced 
her  to  live  there,  and  nothing  but  the  wish  to  induct  the 
young  couple  into  their  home  would  have  made  her  spend 
208 


THE   JOY- BELLS  AGAIN        209 

any  time  in  that  absurd  doll's  house,  as  Adeline  called 
it.  It  was  a  very  charming  trait  in  Richard ;  it  showed 
a  refinement  of  feeling  beyond  what  might  be  expected 
in  a  masculine  breast,  to  select  the  home  of  his  infancy  for 
that  of  his  married  life;  she  could  not  grudge  her  dear 
boy  the  indulgence  of  these  delicate  emotions,  still — 
people  owe  something  to  their  position  and  friends.  It 
takes  a  good  many  mansions  to  preserve  the  sacred  flame 
of  love  in  the  average  human  breast,  according  to  Mrs. 
Belton.  This  reflection  made  her  sigh  while  she  filled 
bowls  of  roses  and  scattered  trails  of  Virgina  creeper 
about  the  small  and  simply-furnished  rooms  with  the 
taste  that  distinguished  her ;  and,  unless  she  was  greatly 
mistaken  in  Evelyn,  she  would  soon  rebel  against  the 
narrow  seclusion  of  this  remote,  sea-washed  village.  Not 
that  Evelyn's  position  could  claim  anything  better;  she 
was  very  well  in  her  way,  pretty,  but  totally  unformed ; 
what  could  poor,  dear  Richard  have  seen  in  her  ?  It  was 
no  use  to  lament,  evidently  Mrs.  Arbury  had  known 
what  she  was  about.  Since  Richard  had  thought  proper 
to  throw  himself  away,  the  only  thing  was  to  make  the 
best  of  it ;  Evelyn  was  young,  she  might  develop. 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  little  dull  for  you,  dearest," 
Richard  was  saying,  as  they  drove  between  hedges  tan- 
gled with  briony,  blackberry,  and  honeysuckle.  "But 
what  rest  and  refreshment  for  me!" 

He  rarely  said  "dearest,"  so  Evelyn  smiled  and 
slipped  a  hand  inside  his  arm  with  an  affectionate  little 
squeeze.  "Nothing  will  be  dull  to  me  that  you  like," 
was  the  reply.  ' '  I  only  want  to  make  you  happy,  Rich- 
ard." 

"Darling" — still  rarer  and  more  valued  expression 
— "how  I  hope  you  will  like  the  place !  For  me  there  is 
110  place  in  the  world  like  it.  It  makes  me  a  boy  again. 
But  you  were  not  born  there,  Evelyn;  you  didn't  live  a 
sort  of  fairy-tale  life  there  alone  with  your  mother." 

' '  No,  but  I  mean  to  live  a  sort  of  fairy-tale  life  there 
alone  with  my  husband, ' '  the  low,  sweet  voice  replied. 


210  RICHARD   ROSNY 

' '  The  worst  is  I  shall  have  to  be  away  so  much.  But 
not  more  than  I  can  help.  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  get 
them  to  put  on  another  train.  You'll  find  interests  in 
time,  dear.  You  will  take  pleasure  in  parishing. 
Mother  used  to  parish." 

"How  do  you  know  I  like  parishing?" 

"Your  uncle  said  so." 

"Oh!  did  he?" 

"And  you  may  like  the  rectory  people;  it's  a  rine  old 
house,  and  often  full  of  visitors.  The  Retreat  is  very 
near.  I  hope  you'll  like  the  Chesneys.  Ronald  Musgrave, 
Lady  Randall's  brother,  is  an  old  messmate  of  mine; 
he'll  be  coming  down  sometimes.  We'll  have  a  big 
box  from  Mudie  and  plenty  of  papers  and  reviews. 
And  with  music  and  needlework  and  housekeeping 
and  gardening  and  a  stupid,  tired  husband  coming 
home " 

"And  sometimes  a  shipwreck  and  sometimes  a  mack- 
erel catch,  and  smugglers " 

"No,  I  can't  promise  you  smugglers;  they're  gone 
out ;  but  you  can  have  coast-guardsmen,  splendid  fellows 
to  look  at,  and  very  handy  if  you  want  anything  done. 
Their  officer  is  an  old  messmate  too;  you  may  find  his 
wife  companionable,  and  she  may  give  you  some  wrinkles 
in  housekeeping. ' ' 

"I'm  afraid  I  need  them,  dear.  But  I  used  to  be 
good  at  arithmetic  at  school.  I  can  cast  up,  though  I 
was  never  quite  clear  about  compound  subtraction. ' ' 

"It's  a  happy  thing  for  me,"  Richard  said,  "that  you 
are  content  with  little ;  for,  as  I  told  your  uncle,  my  wife 
marries  poverty,  and,  indeed,  I  was  not  sure,  till  he  told 
me  how  little  you  cared  for  smart  frocks  and  carriages 
and  such  things,  whether  I  dared  ask  such  a  bright  young 
creature  to  share  such  a  gray  and  humdrum  life,  some- 
thing like  planting  a  rose-bush  in  Whitechapel.  But  I 
know  that  you  very  clearly  understand  that  I  hold  the 
banking  profits  in  trust  for  the  Beltons,  and  that  you  will 
never  want  me  to  alter  our  modest  way  of  living.  Be- 


THE   JOY- BELLS  AGAIN        211 

tween  ourselves,  Evelyn,  I  made  a  great  mess  of  it  at 
home.  I  began  by  just  paying  for  everything  that  was 
wanted.  Now  I've  asked  them  to  take  a  certain  income 
and  spend  it  and  leave  me  free  to  devote  myself  to  busi- 
ness. I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do  the  same;  it  will  be 
such  a  help  to  me  if  you  will,  Evelyn " 

"  If  ? " 

"Never  speak  of  the  cost  of  things,  Evelyn.  You  will 
have  a  banking  account  and  draw  cheques  as  you  want 
them.  You  will  have  three  hundred  and  fifty  a  year,  no 
more  and  no  less.  Divide  three  fifty  by  four  and  make  it 
do  for  three  months,  and.  if  you  find  yourself  going 
ahead,  pinch  on  the  next  quarter.  Or  strike  a  weekly 
average,  and  try  to  keep  to  it.  But  you'll  soon  learn,  if 
you  pay  as  you  go  and  keep  careful  accounts.  Nothing 
like  accounts  to  make  time  fly. ' ' 

"Oh,  I'll  learn  as  fast  as  I  can.  But  how  much  to 
learn !  And  how  shall  we  ever  spend  all  that  money  in  a 
little  cottage?  Shall  you  be  very  cross  if  I  only  get 
through  half,  dearest  ? ' ' 

"Not  very.  But  I  hardly  think  my  temper  will  be 
tried  in  that  way.  You  sweet  little  goose,  you'll  be  clever 
if  you  keep  within  bounds  in  the  first  quarter.  But  if 
you  can,  it  will  make  all  the  difference  between  domestic 
happiness  and  domestic  misery." 

Her  face  clouded;  she  withdrew  the  caressing  hand 
and  nestled  back  into  her  own  corner,  disillusioned  and 
shocked.  As  if  sordid  considerations  of  shillings  and 
pence  could  affect  high  matters  of  heart  and  soul,  or  love 
could  fluctuate  with  account-books. 

"I  trust  that  our  happiness  is  based  upon  something 
better  than  bills,"  she  replied,  with  an  offended  dignity 
that  was  unnoticed  by  the  obtuse  male  creature  at  her 
side;  "upon  something  higher  and  holier  than  house- 
keeping." 

"You  will  always  take  high  and  noble  views  of  life, 
Evelyn.  It  is  a  great  rest  to  me  to  be  sure  of  that, ' '  he 
said  tenderly,  but  with  the  want  of  effusion  that  had  per- 


212  RICHARD    ROSNY 

petually  exasperated  his  mother  and  now  chilled  his  wife. 
Was  there  ever  wife  not  chilled,  disappointed  or  exas- 
perated by  married  calm  and  silent  confidence,  so  curi- 
ously in  contrast  with  the  fire  and  agitation  of  prenuptial 
days? 

She  shrank  deeper  into  her  corner,  an  immense  soli- 
tude and  desolation  weighing  upon  her  hungry  and  sen- 
sitive heart,  listlessly  hearing  him  wish  that  summer 
instead  of  winter  was  before  them,  so  that  it  might  not 
be  so  dull,  while  she  recalled  with  a  spasm  of  home- 
sickness all  the  best  traits  in  her  uncle  and  aunt,  and 
all  the  cheerful  bustle  of  a  house  overrun  by  boy 
cousins. 

They  had  all  been  so  much  kinder  and  more  affec- 
tionate during  her  brief  engagement,  and  her  uncle  so 
generous  with  the  wedding  outfit ;  she  had  been  for  a  little 
the  central  figure  in  the  family.  Even  the  boys  had 
racked  their  brains  to  think  of  wedding  presents  and  de- 
vise farewell  gaieties  for  her.  All  were  scattered  now; 
the  uncle  and  aunt  were  far  away  on  the  wide  seas.  She 
forgot  all  the  harshness,  all  the  slights,  all  the  misery  of 
dependence,  and  only  remembered  the  shelter  and  com- 
fort of  the  home  she  had  lost.  She  was  going  to  stran- 
gers in  a  strange  place,  with  a  husband  whose  love  seemed 
waning,  and  whose  very  existence  she  had  not  known  six 
months  ago.  His  friends  were  strangers  to  her ;  she  had 
seen  his  family  only  twice  before  the  wedding.  She  knew 
nothing  of  housekeeping,  nothing  of  bills  and  account- 
books  ;  country  life  was  quite  unfamiliar  to  her ;  the  sea- 
side was  associated  with  banjos,  piers,  and  bathing-ma- 
chines, and  gardens  were  known  as  places  for  tennis  and 
bands,  where  flowers  grew  but  must  not  be  gathered.  This 
country,  through  which  they  were  driving  on  to  their 
destiny,  seemed  dreary  to  her  unaccustomed  eyes;  trees 
had  become  few  and  stunted,  habitations  fewer;  a  long 
gray  ridge  of  down  rose  on  one  side,  a  long  bare  level  of 
fields  spread  on  the  other;  even  the  hedges  were  losing 
their  blossom  and  fruit  and  looked  less  and  less  cheer- 


THE   JOY- BELLS  AGAIN        213 

f ul ;  everything  was  more  and  more  ravaged  by  savage, 
salt  winds  as  they  approached  the  sea,  which  was  their 
destination. 

Marriage  had  scarcely  brought  her  the  happiness  and 
freedom  she  had  pictured ;  the  thoughtful,  practical  man 
at  her  side  was  very  different  from  the  romantic  knight 
in  the  boat,  into  whose  love-filled  eyes  she  had  looked, 
half  waking  and  half  dreaming  that  May  afternoon,  and 
at  once  accepted  him  as  her  deliverer  and  lifelong  protec- 
tor; still  more  different  from  the  man  into  whose  rescu- 
ing arms  she  had  fallen  that  day  from  the  moving  train, 
and  whose  agitated  face  and  deep  eyes  and  voice  had 
been  such  a  strength  and  comfort  to  her.  Where  were 
all  his  agitations  and  fears,  clouds  and  sudden  radiances, 
his  silent  homage  and  delicately  veiled  adoration,  his 
sudden  changes  of  voice  and  color,  and  constant  preoccu- 
pation with  herself;  where  his  perpetual  solicitude  for 
her  pleasure  and  happiness,  that  had  made  this  summer 
one  long  and  tender  and  romantic  poem?  Where  the 
carefully  chosen  conversation,  the  anxious  seeking  of 
subjects  of  interest  to  her;  in  short,  where  was  the  wooer? 
— the  lover,  as  she  phrased  it — she  had  not  learned  to  sep- 
arate the  two.  He  already  read  things  in  which  she  took 
no  interest;  he  was  sometimes  lost  in  thought  in  her 
presence;  his  conversation  on  their  home-coming  was  of 
bills  and  housekeeping  and  the  dulness  of  their  future 
married  life.  He  advised  her  to  kill  time  by  parishing 
and  gardening. 

Some  hot  drops  gathered  in  her  eyes  and  fell ;  but  the 
obtuse  male  creature,  looking  straight  before  him,  took 
no  notice  of  them,  sublimely  unconscious  of  any  offense 
toward  her;  he  was  evidently  wrapped  up  in  his  own 
thoughts.  The  hot  tears  dried  at  their  source,  scorched 
by  his  indifference.  Harsh  aunt,  inconsiderate  uncle, 
teasing  cousins,  dependent  life  of  a  superfluous  and  un- 
valued girl,  all  grew  suddenly  sweet  and  dear  in  retro- 
spect. She  would  have  given  anything  to  see  them 
again.  No  doubt  Richard  would  grow  more  and  more 


214  RICHARD   ROSNY 

indifferent  as  they  settled  down,  into  monotonous  mar- 
ried life  in  that  dull  little  cottage.  Why  did  people 
marry  ? 

She  flicked  her  tears  daintily  away,  turning  her  face 
toward  the  down-ridge;  she  was  determined  to  keep  a 
cheerful  countenance  before  his  mother ;  she  was  terribly 
in  awe  of  his  mother,  before  whose  misprizing  gaze  she 
had  instantly  felt  herself  marshaled,  inspected  and  found 
wanting.  Yet,  but  for  the  coachman,  whose  sturdy  back 
and  unconscious  head  betrayed  little  curiosity  or  inter- 
est in  those  behind  him,  she  would  have  yielded  to  an 
impulse  to  hide  her  face  in  Richard's  arm  and  implore 
him  to  comfort  r?r  with  one  loving  word,  one  tender 
assurance. 

"Isn't  it  much  nicer  to  drive  instead  of  waiting  to  go 
by  train?"  he  asked,  contentedly  changing  his  position 
and  turning  toward  her.  "But  you  look  tired,  Evelyn. 
We  shall  be  home  soon  now.  There ! "  he  cried,  as  a  turn 
in  the  road  delivered  them  from  the  long,  monotonous 
down-ridge  and  disclosed  a  varied  plateau  of  village, 
farm  and  homestead,  spreading  to  higher  and  more  broken 
and  sunnier  hills  on  one  side  and  to  the  sea  on  the  other, 
while  before  them  were  woods  and  fields  and  cottages 
buried  in  gardens  and  orchards,  and,  standing  four 
square  and  sturdy  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  Wimbury 
church-tower,  whence  the  joy-bells  pealed  gaily  on  the 
still  and  sunny  air.  ' '  There  are  your  wedding-bells,  the 
joy-bells  to  welcome  you  home,  darling. ' ' 

The  tears  came  now  in  flood,  but  without  bitterness, 
the  coachman  was  forgotten,  the  impulse  to  fall  into  Rich- 
ard's arms  unresisted,  and  all  was  well  again. 

"Don't  cry,  you  little  goose,"  was  the  most  tender 
observation  vouchsafed  her;  but  the  voice  and  caress 
made  up  for  much,  and  after  all,  a  road  bordered  by  cot- 
tages is  not  a  complete  solitude,  and,  though  the  coach- 
man was  perfectly  discreet,  he  was  there  on  the  box 
solidly  blocking  the  westering  sunbeams  from  them.  A 
group  of  children,  with  purple-stained  faces,  stood  on 


THE   JOY- BELLS  AGAIN        215 

a  broken  bank  by  the  road,  and  desisted  from  black- 
berrying  to  drop  courtesies  and  raise  shrill  little  cheers, 
that  brought  women  from  cottages  to  drop  courtesies  in 
turn. 

"What  is  the  sense  of  piping  your  eye  when  you're 
happy  ? ' '  Richard  said,  when  they  turned  another  corner 
and  drove  past  the  weather-stained  church-tower  that 
seemed  to  rock  in  the  tumult  of  tumbling  bells,  between 
gardens  blazing  with  autumn  flowers  and  orchards  loaded 
with  ripe  fruit,  and  drew  up  at  the  gate  of  a  gabled 
house  very  near  the  road,  which  was  overrun  with  green- 
ery, pierced  by  the  flame  of  Virgina  creeper,  and  roofed 
with  brown  tiles  mellowed  by  sea  and  storm  and  partly 
sheltered  by  trees. 

Richard  saw  the  ghost  of  his  boy  self  standing,  heart- 
sick and  full  of  hatred,  under  the  wind-ravaged  sycamore, 
with  a  retrospective  pain  that  made  the  happy  present 
happier  than  ever. 

"How  pretty!"  Evelyn  cried,  surprised  by  the 
homely  charm  of  the  small  house  basking  in  the  sun, 
among  its  roses,  honeysuckles,  and  clematis;  and,  in 
truth,  it  seemed  to  smile  on  them  from  its  low,  latticed 
windows,  as  from  friendly  eyes  sparkling  with  welcome, 
and  to  breathe  out  flower-scents  like  blessings. 

Rosny  paused,  warmly  pressing  her  hand,  in  the  act 
of  handing  her  out,  unable  to  speak  in  the  exquisite  hap- 
piness that  rushed  upon  him  on  the  surge  of  the  joy-bells. 
"Forgiven,"  his  heart  sang  within  him,  "forgiven. 
Forgiven  at  last  and  forever."  This  deep  and  perfect 
joy,  embodied  in  the  lovely  and  loving  young  woman 
stepping  into  his  home  as  into  his  heart,  this  pure  and 
deep  joy,  was  the  symbol  and  seal  of  his  pardon  and  ac- 
cepted penitence.  He  had  been  forgiven  much;  his 
heart  overflowed  with  gratitude,  and  he  loved  much. 
The  heart  of  a  little  child  seemed  given  back  to  him  with 
the  home  in  which  he  had  lived  a  little  child 's  most  happy 
life;  something  that  had  come  into  his  life  and  marred 
and  darkened  it  on  that  other  wedding-day  seemed  to 


210  RICHARD    ROSNY 

fall  away  now  and  leave  it  bright  and  pure  and  joyous, 
an  innocent  child's  again. 

His  mother  stood,  smiling  and  gracious,  at  the  door ; 
he  led  Evelyn  to  her  in  a  kind  of  blissful  dream ;  again 
he  saw  as  through  a  mist  of  tears  the  tall,  dark  man  who 
had  been  at  her  side  on  the  wedding-day,  but  with  pity 
and  tenderest  regret,  in  place  of  the  jealous  hate  and 
bitterness  of  that  day.  No  day  dawned  on  which  he 
failed  to  remember  that  man  with  sorrow  and  love;  no 
night  fell  on  which  his  name  was  not  spoken  in  prayer. 

He  left  Evelyn  to  pass  before  him  to  his  mother ;  she 
looked  back  at  him  in  nervous  appeal;  the  bells,  which 
had  paused  a  moment,  broke  out  again,  ringing  a  fresh 
change.  Evelyn  turned  again,  flushed  and  wistful,  then 
hurried  dizzily  forward  and,  catching  her  foot  on  the 
threshold,  stumbled  badly  and  recovered  with  difficulty. 

Mrs.  Belton  frowned ;  the  two  maids  standing  behind 
her  noticed  the  omen;  for  the  bride  to  stumble  on  the 
threshold  is  the  worst  luck. 

"You  are  tired,  dear,"  Edith  said  through  her  em- 
brace, "too  tired  to  see  the  step.  Poor  child,  you  shall 
have  some  tea  and  rest." 

But  Evelyn  remembered,  in  the  mortification  of  this 
awkward  entrance,  to  speak  to  the  maids,  and  accept  their 
good  wishes.  Edith,  inclined  to  carp  at  this  undignified 
want  of  self-possession,  had  to  admit  that  her  daughter- 
in-law  could  be  gracious  and  sweet  in  trying  circum- 
stances, and  looked  with  approval  at  the  graceful  young 
figure  and  agitated  face. 

"How  can  you  call  this  a  cottage?"  she  asked  when 
she  came  into  the  parlor  and  surveyed  her  tiny  domain 
with  pleasure  and  admiration.  "Why,  it's  charm- 
ing!" 

"I  hope  you  will  like  it,  dear;  Adeline  and  Gerald 
and  I  have  spent  much  thought  and  many  happy  hours 
in  arranging  it.  I  think,  Evelyn,  you  will  find  every- 
thing that  can  be  wanted  in  your  little  nest.  We  tried 
to  leave  nothing  for  you  to  do." 


THE   JOY- BELLS   AGAIN        217 

"I  am  sure  I  shall.  How  very  kind!"  she  replied, 
mournfully  dismissing  the  pleasant  prospect  of  arrang- 
ing her  house  to  her  own  taste.  "Everything  will  be 
nice  if  you  did  it.  What  lovely  flowers ! ' ' 

"They  are  from  the  Pines,  and  the  grapes  as  well. 
Now  sit  still,  dearest  Evelyn,  and  rest.  I  will  give 
you  tea,  my  dears. — Yes,  Richard,  those  are  the  veritable 
ivory  chessmen  you  were  only  allowed  to  touch  on  Sun- 
days. But  not  the  old  bellows  you  liked  to  blow.  These 
are  new  for  remembrance.  The  old  brass  fender  is  new, 
too ;  there  is  quite  a  rage  for  old  brass  fenders  just  now." 

"And  you  picked  this  one  up  cheap?"  He  knew 
very  well  what  Edith's  picking  up  cheap  involved. 
' '  You  have  been  far  too  good  to  us,  Muff.  I  really  didn  't 
mean  to  let  you  in  for  so  much  trouble.  I  thought  if  you 
just  made  the  place  habitable  we  could  finish  it  our- 
selves. ' ' 

"Oh!  a  man's  idea  of  habitable!  I  doubt  if  your 
poor  little  wife  would  have  enjoyed  that." 

' '  Is  this  lovely  china  your  choice,  mama  1  Ah !  I 
thought  so.  But  isn't  Crown  Derby  rather  expensive?" 
Evelyn  innocently  asked. 

"By  Jove,  Muff,  you  are  incorrigible,"  Richard 
growled,  half  laughing  and  half  dismayed;  "Crown 
Derby  china  in  a  cottage  parlor!  From  fifty  to  many 
hundred  guineas,  perhaps.  Look  here,  I  really  can't 
have  it.  Using  the  cups  once  won't  hurt  them.  We'll 
pack  it  up  to-morrow  and  send  it  back  for  something 
cheaper. ' ' 

' '  Nay,  Richard,  that  is  quite  out  of  the  question, ' '  was 
the  serene  and  smiling  rejoinder.  ' '  My  dearest  boy,  you 
really  must  conquer  that  sad  habit  of  alluding  to  the 
cost  of  things.  Besides,  it  is  not  your  affair  at  all ;  the 
china  is  my  gift  to  your  wife " 

"But,  indeed,  it  is  far  too  good,"  he  remonstrated. 

"Too  good  for  Evelyn?  Come,  come,  dainty  china  is 
quite  the  proper  thing  in  a  cottage ;  one  of  the  few  ele- 
gancies that  redeem  simplicity  from  barbarism.  And 


218  RICHARD   ROSNY 

since  you  will  allude  to  the  sordid  detail  of  cost,  Richard 
darling,  remember  that  I  have  quite  given  up  all  idea  of 
having  the  ballroom  decorated  by  Sir  Lorraine-Leigh. 
That  saves  a  thousand  guineas  at  once.  A  tea  service 
is  a  bagatelle  in  comparison,"  Mrs.  Belton  said,  with 
calm  and  triumphant  logic;  and  Evelyn  added  that  she 
knew  little  of  the  cost  of  china,  but  was  quite  sure  this 
was  one  of  the  loveliest  services  she  had  ever  seen,  and  it 
was  most  dear  and  sweet  of  mama  to  think  of  anything 
so  charming,  and  she  thanked  her  with  all  her  heart.  So 
kisses  and  smiles  having  been  exchanged,  and  tea  handed 
about  in  the  costly  cups,  Rosny  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  had  better  pay  and  look  pleasant  and  never  again 
commission  his  mother  to  buy  anything. 

When  Adeline  and  Gerald  came  in  with  a  fluffy  little 
Persian  kitten  for  a  wedding  present,  Evelyn's  shyness 
began  to  wear  off,  and  she  bloomed  and  sparkled  in  a  way 
that  made  Gerald  admit  an  excuse  for  his  brother's  crim- 
inal indulgence  in  the  luxury  of  married  life.  The  kitten 
lapped  cream  to  admiration  from  a  Crown  Derby  saucer, 
which  it  broke  to  atoms  with  great  applause  soon  after,  in 
the  course  of  some  charming  gambols  with  its  own  plumy 
tail.  Then  the  young  couple  were  introduced  to  the  plen- 
ishings and  renovations  of  their  cottage,  and  Adeline 
showed  what  could  be  done  with  the  new  piano,  after  they 
had  dined  in  a  style  unusual  in  ordinary  cottages. 

They  were  all  very  gay  at  dinner,  even  Richard,  who 
forgot  for  a  moment  what  he  called  the  rampant  and  ex- 
pensive simplicity  of  their  cottage,  and  cheerfully  as- 
sented to  the  Beltonian  dictum  that  the  truest  economy 
consists  in  buying  the  most  expensive  things.  And  when 
the  Beltons  drove  back  to  Ingrestone  by  the  light  of  a 
large  yellow  moon,  they  left  a  respectably  happy  pair  in 
the  clematis-covered  porch,  just  as  the  joy-bells  clashed 
out  again  from  the  steeple. 

Evelyn  thought  when  they  went  back  that  the  wain- 
scoted parlor  looked  pleasant  and  homelike;  she  liked 
the  low  ceiling  crossed  with  heavy  oak  beams  and  the 


THE   JOY- BELLS  AGAIN        219 

cushioned  window  seats,  oak  furniture,  old  china  and  few 
well-chosen  pictures. 

' '  I  hope  they  will  come  often, ' '  she  said  rather  plain- 
tively ;  "  I  like  Gerald  best  of  all  your  people.  He 's  so 
light-hearted." 

Richard  was  looking  at  his  father's  picture  on  the 
wall  with  the  sword  beneath.  His  own  sword  crossed  it 
and  a  permanent  photograph  of  himself  in  his  last  uni- 
form hung  beneath.  He  seemed  not  to  hear  her,  till  she 
hung  on  his  arm  and  gently  reproached  his  inattention, 
when  he  just  stroked  her  beautiful  hair  and  said  emphat- 
ically, ' '  Gerald  is  dearer  to  me  than  any  one  in  the  world 
— after  my  mother. ' ' 

She  flushed  and  let  go  his  arm  with  a  little  stamp  of 
her  foot.  Then,  swallowing  a  sob,  she  turned  with  a 
little  strained  laugh  and  looked  up  in  his  face.  "And 
pray  where  do  I  come  in?"  she  asked,  lightly. 

"As  if  there  could  be  any  question,"  was  the  grave, 
almost  stern,  reply. 

' '  Who  knows  ? ' '  she  returned,  hiding  the  icy  chill  of 
disappointed  tenderness  under  a  cynical  hardness  he 
mistook  for  gaiety. 

Then  they  walked  out  in  the  warm  moonlit  stillness, 
through  the  garden  and  fields,  to  the  cliff  by  the  sea,  the 
way  he  had  run  on  his  mother's  wedding-day,  and  as  they 
walked  he  told  her  all  that  story,  to  the  sound  of  the 
same  bells  ringing  their  joyous  changes  to  echoing  hills 
and  softly  sighing  sea. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE    LITTLE    RIFT 

THE  winter  proved  not  so  dull  after  all;  everything 
and  everybody  was  new,  and  even  receiving  and  return- 
ing calls  is  not  without  interest  in  an  entirely  new  neigh- 
borhood. 

"Another  dinner-party?"  Richard  would  groan,  as 
weeks  rolled  on,  or  ' '  another  dance  ? ' '  and  Evelyn  would 
reply  cheerily  that,  after  all,  some  of  her  lovely  frocks 
would  have  a  chance  of  seeing  the  light.  Then  he  would 
congratulate  her  on  having  a  stock  of  gowns  that  would 
last  for  years.  And  when  this  saying,  quoted  at  the 
Pines,  evoked  a  shout  of  laughter,  he  could  not  see  the 
joke. 

"He  thinks  ladies  are  like  ledgers,  and  only  want 
binding  once,"  Adeline  said. 

' '  And  I  'm  perfectly  sure  that  every  one  who  comes  to 
the  cottage  thinks  the  same,"  Evelyn  returned.  "I 
never  even  imagined  such  rags  out  of  an  old-clothes 
shop." 

The  difficulties  of  compound  subtraction  provided 
much  pleasant  and  harmonious  pastime  for  long  and 
quiet  evenings  at  home,  and  having  proved  not  insuper- 
able, led  on  to  still  greater  achievements,  until  such  things 
as  book-keeping  by  double-entry  became  bagatelle,  and  the 
house  books  balanced  as  if  by  magic. 

"But  now,  dear,  you  can  run  alone,"  the  tutor  said, 

with  an  approving  smile  one  spring  evening,  after  which 

Evelyn  received  no  more  of  the  lessons  that  had  been 

such  a  pleasure.     Then  Richard  began  to  be  detained 

220 


THE    LITTLE   RIFT  221 

from  home  by  business ;  sometimes  till  the  midnight  train 
that  dropped  him  six  miles  from  Wimbury;  sometimes 
for  one  or  two  consecutive  nights. 

About  this  time  he  was  urgent  for  her  to  have  friends 
to  stay  with  her.  But  Evelyn  was  deficient  in  the  army 
of  girl-friends  with  which  most  young  women  are  pro- 
vided, and  her  sisters-in-law  cared  little  for  Wimbury, 
while  Evelyn  cared  even  less  to  have  one  of  them  there 
for  whole  days  or  weeks  of  tete-a-tete.  She  frankly  ad- 
mitted that  she  would  prefer  the  prolonged  company  of  a 
brother-in-law. 

''Two  women  shut  up  in  a  house  together  can  never 
escape  one  another,"  she  told  her  husband;  "but  a  man 
must  do  something  a  woman  can't  do  with  him  during  the 
day.  Perhaps,"  she  added,  reflectively,  "that  is  partly 
why  men's  society  is  so  much  pleasanter  than  women's;" 
an  observation  that  surprised  and  a  little  discomposed 
Rosny. 

"Nonsense,  child,"  he  said  testily,  "you  don't  know 
what  you  are  talking  about. ' ' 

"Don't  I,  though?"  she  thought,  but  did  not  say. 
For  after  six  months  of  marriage  she  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  one 's  husband  is  not  a  person  with  whom 
discussion  is  profitable  or  even  possible.  Thoughts,  to 
Evelyn's  great  astonishment,  seemed  to  be  as  much  sub- 
ject to  sex  as  human  beings;  there  were  evidently  male 
thoughts  and  principles  and  female  thoughts  and  princi- 
ples ;  only,  unlike  human  males  and  females,  they  seemed 
incapable  of  marriage  or  even  of  any  temporary  union 
that  did  not  result  in  discord. 

"Why  did  you  marry  me,  Richard?"  she  suddenly 
asked  one  day  apropos  of  nothing,  after  a  long  silence 
filled  in  on  her  part  with  some  such  reflections,  and  on 
his  by  rapidly  skimming  a  paper. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  replied,  with  hardly  restrained 
impatience  at  this  unexpected  dragging  of  large  and 
sacred  topics  into  the  dusty  details  of  workaday  life. 
' '  Surely  you  remember.  It 's  not  so  very  long  ago. ' ' 

13 


222  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"But  tell  me  again,  please;  I  never  quite  under- 
stood." 

'•"Oh!  the  usual  reason —  It's  very  kind  of  you  to 
kiss  me,  dear ;  but  I  'd  rather  have  another  cup  of  coffee 
just  now,  please,  if  I'm  to  catch  this  train : 

' '  How  rude  and  unkind  you  are ! "  in  a  voice  choked 
by  tears.  ' '  You  care  for  nothing  but  creature  comforts. 
You  don't  care  for  me  at  ail.  Why  on  earth  did  you 
marry  me  ?  " 

"Dearest  Evelyn,  do  try  to  be  reasonable,"  was  the 
very  grave  reply.  ' '  You  know  by  this  time,  or  ought  to 
know,  that  a  man  hates  to  be  always  talking  about  feel- 
ings— especially  when  in  a  hurry.  It's — it's — profane. 
To  accuse  me  of  not  caring  for  you  is  absurd.  Why 
should  I  have  married  you  else?  Perhaps,"  he  added, 
after  a  pause,  "it  was  a  little  rash.  Perhaps  it  would 
have  been  wiser  and  kinder  to  have  left  you  without  a 
word.  I  am  over  old  for  you  and  over  grave.  But  you 
knew  my  age  and  my  glumness  and  all  my  disqualifica- 
tions long  ago,  and  took  me  in  spite  of  them  for  better  or 
for  worse.  So  try  to  make  the  best  of  me,  and  don't  at- 
tribute unkindness  where  none  is  or  can  be  meant. 
Surely  you  can  trust  me.  I  trust  you.  I  did  hesitate  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me,  Evelyn.  I  should  never  have  done 
so  for  my  own  sake.  I  had  actually  given  you  up  ;  I  had 
said  I  would  never  see  you  again.  It  was  only  after  I 
met  you  that  day  on  the  Metropolitan,  and  saw  that  your 
happiness  was  involved — for  so  it  seemed  to  me,  and 
afterward  you  told  me  I  was  not  mistaken — it  was  only 
after  that  that  I  ventured  to  propose  marriage  to  you.  It 
is  too  late  now  to  consider  the  propriety  of  that  very 
serious  step.  Try  to  make  the  best  of  it,  Evie,  and  don't 
be  a  baby,  there's  a  dear.  I  must  be  off  now,  breakfast 
or  no  breakfast.  Good-by. ' ' 

He  tried  to  kiss  her,  but  was  angrily  repulsed  and  left 
the  house  unkissed,  but  also,  she  jealously  observed,  com- 
paratively untroubled  by  the  omission.  The  fact  that  he 
had  had  an  uncomfortable  and  insufficient  breakfast  was 


THE    LITTLE   RIFT  223 

to  Evelyn  quite  immaterial ;  she  would  rather  have  gone 
without  a  breakfast  than  without  a  kiss  herself  any  day ; 
the  fact  that  he  had  a  whole  world  of  things  more  im- 
portant than  kisses  to  think  of  was  also  immaterial  to  her ; 
nothing  in  the  wide  world  was  of  such  consequence  to  her 
as  her  husband's  feeling  toward  her;  no  duty  could  be 
so  imperious  as  the  duty,  not  only  of  loving,  but  also  of 
expressing  her  love.  This  makes  the  tragedy  of  relations 
between  husband  and  wife,  their  different  view-points  of 
life  and  its  obligations,  and  their  different  standards  of 
duty,  feeling  and  happiness.  They  never  see  things  in 
the  same  perspective. 

Poor  little  Evelyn,  with  a  long,  empty  day  before  her, 
scarcely  broken  by  the  series  of  infinitesimal  duties  that 
claimed  no  special  hour  or  even  day  of  performance,  and 
any  one  of  which  might  stand  over  indefinitely,  shut  her- 
self up  alone  to  hug  a  misery  of  her  own  making,  and 
magnified  and  distorted  it  out  of  all  proportion  by  long, 
solitary  brooding.  Richard  had  been  rude  and  unkind ; 
had  complained  of  being  kissed  and  openly  preferred  cof- 
fee to  caresses;  he  had  refused  to  tell  her  he  loved  her, 
though  he  knew  that  she  was  dying  for  the  comfort  of 
that  assurance;  he  had  scolded  her  and  preached  to  her 
in  the  most  unkind  and  heartless  way  when  he  should 
have  comforted  and  caressed  her;  finally,  he  had  filled 
up  the  measure  of  his  cruelty  by  saying  that  he  had  made 
a  mistake  in  marrying  her  and  would  never  have  done  it 
for  his  own  sake,  but  only  out  of  pity  for  her,  because  he 
saw  that  she  was  dying  for  him.  And  with  this  cruel 
and  unmanly  insult  he  had  left  her  for  a  whole  day,  per- 
haps forever;  for  trains  might  smash,  or  she  might  be 
taken  ill  and  die  before  night;  she  hoped  she  would;  it 
would  serve  him  right.  The  thought  of  this  last  con- 
summation was  a  mournful  luxury  that  brought  floods 
of  tears  and  sobs  of  self-pity  to  her  relief,  and  ended 
in  exhaustion  and  a  headache  that  chained  her  to  a 
sofa  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  in  a  room  darkened  to  the 
golden  sunlight  and  all  the  sweet  beginnings  of  leaf 


224  RICHARD    ROSNY 

and  bloom  and  life  outside  in  the  pleasant  spring  after- 
noon. 

Meantime  the  heartless  cause  of  all  this  tragedy,  rush- 
ing half -fed  to  catch  his  train  and  plunge  into  the  multi- 
farious and  arduous  toils  of  the  day,  was  conscious  only 
of  a  justifiable  irritation,  that  he  had  held  in  due  check, 
and  a  sense  of  undeserved  unkindness  and  unreasonable- 
ness, that  he  excused  on  the  score  of  physical  weakness, 
and  tried  honestly  to  bear  with  as  being  due  to  the  nerv- 
ous complications  to  which  young  wives  are  subject. 

It  was  but  a  pin-prick,  yet  the  soreness  and  vexation 
worried  him  for  a  good  half-hour,  refusing  to  yield  to  the 
tenderness  Evelyn's  weakness  claimed  from  him.  Per- 
haps he  had  not  made  sufficient  allowance  for  her;  he 
might  have  tried  to  show  more  tenderness  and  less  irrita- 
tion ;  the  poor  darling  was  alone ;  he  would  take  some  lit- 
tle present  home  for  her  and  try  to  be  a  little  more  ef- 
fusive to  make  up.  Strange  that  she  could  not  see  what 
a  nuisance  gush  and  sentiment  are,  especially  to  busy 
people ;  strange  that  she  did  not  realize  that,  being  won, 
she  was  no  more  to  be  wooed,  and  that  things  once  said 
and  feelings  once  expressed  need  no  repetition.  She  was 
young  and  would  grow  wiser ;  soon  there  would  be  a  more 
legitimate  object  for  the  tenderness  with  which  Nature 
seems  to  have  overdowered  the  sex  most  in  need  of  it. 

A  vague  irritation  mingling  with  the  busy  workings 
of  his  brain  was  all  that  remained  of  his  part  of  the  dis- 
sonance by  the  time  he  reached  the  bank,  where  news  of 
a  disquieting  nature  had  to  be  faced,  and  business  of  such 
unexpected  urgency  to  be  met,  that  there  was  no  coming 
home  that  night  at  all;  so  that  the  penitence  secretly 
hoped  by  Evelyn,  and  the  forgiveness  she  looked  for- 
ward to  granting,  were  alike  prevented  by  one  of  those 
cruelly  hard  little  sentences  to  which  telegraphy  has 
accustomed  us. 

' '  Business ! ' '  she  cried,  tearing  the  familiar  scrawl  to 
pieces;  "business!  when  people's  hearts  are  breaking. 
Surely  I  might  be  allowed  one  hour  in  his  busy  day." 


THE   LITTLE   RIFT  225 

So  when  the  second  evening  came  and  with  it  the 
truant  husband,  he  had  so  far  forgotten  the  little  tiff  that 
the  cool  and  haughty  reception  vouchsafed  him  entirely 
failed  to  impress  him,  except  faintly  as  being  preferable 
to  too  much  effusiveness,  and  he  was  so  glad  to  find  him- 
self in  his  own  home  again,  with  the  sweet  face  and  beau- 
tiful dark  eyes  of  his  wife  looking  across  the  table  at  him, 
that  his  placid  cheerfulness  and  content  nearly  drove  her 
wild.  The  cold  cheek  passive  to  the  unreturned  kiss,  the 
cold  "Quite  well,  I  thank  you,"  in  response  to  his  affec- 
tionate inquiries  for  her  health,  her  monosyllabic  replies 
and  silences,  seemed  to  discompose  him  not  at  all;  he 
seemed  almost  glad  to  take  his  soup  and  fish  without  a 
word. 

' '  The  sensuality  of  these  men, ' '  Evelyn  reflected,  after 
an  especially  well-thought-out  dinner  had  been  des- 
patched, course  by  course,  with  apparent  satisfaction; 
"their  dinner  is  their  life!" 

"It  is  a  comfort  to  get  home  again,"  the  creature 
vouchsafed  to  say  at  last,  when  a  cup  of  good  black  cof- 
fee was  placed  before  him.  "Last  night  I  dined  alone 
on  a  railway  sandwich  made  of  sawdust  and  stale  mus- 
tard." 

"No  wonder  you  appreciate  the  contrast.  But  no 
doubt  your  dear,  delightful  business  made  up  for  all," 
was  the  acid  rejoinder. 

"My  dear  little  woman,  what's  the  matter  with  you 
to-night  1  Tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing  these  two 
long  days — who  has  called,  how  many  fowls  have  laid 
eggs,  what  flowers  have  come  up,  and  what  you've  been 
reading.  Then  I'll  tell  you  my  business,  which  is  any- 
thing but  delightful." 

"Nothing  is  the  matter  and  it's  of  no  consequence. 
Nobody  ever  calls,  I  hate  fowls  and  dislike  growing  flow- 
ers, and  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  business,"  she 
replied,  rising  and  going  to  the  window. 

"Come,  come,  come.  That's  pretty  comprehensive. 
You  are  not  well,  Evie,  and  ought  not  to  be  so  much  alone. 


226  RICHARD    ROSNY 

Would  you  like  to  go  somewhere  for  change  ?  "  he  asked, 
following  her  to  the  window  and  drawing  her  down  on 
the  cushioned  seat  by  his  side. 

"I  only  want  to  be  loved,"  she  sobbed,  subsiding, 
pride  and  all,  into  his  arms. 

"Little  goose!  You  know  you  are  that  already. 
Don't  give  way  to  hysteria,  Evelyn,"  he  added  more  seri- 
ously. "It's  one  of  the  things  you  have  to  fight  against, 
my  dear.  You  want  more  fresh  air;  I  can't  let  this  go 
on." 

So  that  storm  blew  over,  and  it  was  in  that  idyllic 
position  that  they  were  seen  through  the  window  by  a  late 
visitor,  who  thought  it  most  natural  and  proper,  and  who 
was  no  other  than  the  vicar,  who  had  tried,  with  such  dis- 
astrous results  to  himself,  to  introduce  the  rod  into  Ros- 
ny's  education. 

' '  I  don 't  know  that  I  ought  to  intrude  on  you  at  this 
inappropriate  hour, ' '  he  said,  when  the  Rosnys  went  into 
the  parlor  to  receive  him,  unconscious  of  the  picturesque 
effect  they  had  produced ;  ' '  but  my  wife  said  you  would 
like  to  know  first,  so  I  just  ran  in  to  tell  you." 

"Very  friendly  and  kind,  Canon,  and  most  proper  of 
you  to  obey  your  wife.  A  bishopric  this  time,  is  it  ? " 

"Not  as  bad  as  all  that,"  he  returned,  sitting  near 
Evelyn  and  bending  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  to 
talk  to  her.  ' '  This  husband  of  yours,  Mrs.  Rosny,  being 
churchwarden  and  otherwise  a  leading  parishioner,  is 
supposed  to  be  interested  in  my  successor." 

' '  I  should  think  he  was ;  I  should  think  we  all  were, ' ' 
she  agreed.  "There  is  no  knowing  what  frumps  and 
horrors  may  come  to  the  vicarage  now.  Such  a  pity,  too, 
when  we  had  just  got  to  know  you  all  so  well.  Do  put 
us  out  of  our  pain  at  once,  dear  Canon  Wrexham. ' ' 

"Oh!  I  don't  think  you  need  apprehend  frumps 
or  horrors  in  this  case,  dear  lady.  They  are  quite  young 
people  who  are  coming.  Very  nice  people,  very  well  con- 
nected, quite  up  to  the  mark  in  every  respect." 

"  I  'm  glad  they  are  young  for  my  wife 's  sake, ' '  Rosny 


THE   LITTLE   RIFT  227 

put  in.  ' '  It 's  dull  for  her  when  I  'm  away,  and  the  young 
turn  to  the  young.  A  Camf ord  man  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh !  yes,  a  college  living,  you  remember.  Yes,  a  Fel- 
low of  Blasius,  a  very  scholarly  man  and  sound  church- 
man. I  think  you  will  all  like  him.  She  is  very  charm- 
ing, a  most  charming  woman,  very  pretty,  and  a  delight- 
ful manner.  Oh!  she  will  be  a  great  addition  to  your 
circle,  especially  after  such  old  fogies  as  ourselves.  I 
fancy  he  has  good  private  means,  too,  and  that's  an  ad- 
vantage in  a  parish  like  this.  The  endowment  is  sadly 
insufficient.  Mrs.  Mayne  is  a  relative  of  the  Chesneys,  I 
believe?" 

"Mayne?"  cried  Rosny  sharply;  "Mayne,  did  you 
say  ?  Herbert  Mayne  ? ' ' 

"The  very  man.  You  know  him  already?  Come, 
this  is  capital.  They'll  scarcely  feel  that  they  are  com- 
ing among  strangers.  I  hope  Mayne  will  keep  up  the 
schools  and  keep  boards  out  of  the  parish.  I  told  him 
what  an  efficient  helper  he  would  find  in  you — about 
your  Sunday  afternoons  for  boys  and  your  refreshment 
houses — 'pious  pubs,'  as  your  brothers  call  them." 

Richard  had  arisen  from  his  place  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hearth  and  gone  to  the  window,  which  was  still  un- 
curtained, the  night  being  mild  and  clear,  and  looked  out, 
his  face  hidden  from  the  others  and  dead  white,  his  breath 
coming  and  going,  and  said  nothing,  while  Evelyn  and 
Canon  Wrexham  made  their  various  comments  on  the 
newcomers.  Presently  he  came  back  slowly  and  stood 
with  his  face  in  shadow  above  a  shaded  lamp. 

"I  knew  Mrs.  Mayne  before  her  marriage,"  he  said 
slowly  in  staccato  tones ;  "  I  used  to  know  her  rather  well 
then — a  long  time  ago. ' ' 

"Oh!  but  she  hasn't  been  married  long.  Hardly  a 
year,  I'm  told.  There's  a  young  baby,  by  the  way;  not 
that  babies  are  ever  very  old ;  Mrs.  Mayne  can 't  be  any 
age." 

' '  I  don 't  know, ' '  added  Rosny, ' '  that  I  shall  have  time 
to  be  churchwarden  much  longer;  I  shall  be  fearfully 


228  RICHARD   ROSNY 

rushed  for  the  next  year  or  two.  I  was  just  going  to  tell 
my  wife  of  the  disquieting  news  that  kept  me  yesterday. 
Godfrey  Belton  has  had  a  stroke.  He'll  never  be  fit  for 
business  again — if  he  lives. ' ' 

"Dear,  dear,  that's  sad  news,  indeed.  He  must  be 
an  old  man,  hard  upon  eighty,  old  for  harness,  old  for 
everything.  I  am  sorry." 

"A  man  of  great  energy.  He  would  never  give  up 
any  part  in  the  management,  the  kind  of  man  who  works 
till  he  drops.  Seventy-five  is  his  age.  He  has  dropped, 
poor  fellow !  I  lose  a  very  kind  friend  and  the  business 
its  main  motive  power.  A  kinder,  more  honorable,  more 
genuine,  more  upright  man  never  breathed,  I  suppose. 
The  best  we  can  hope  for  him  is  a  speedy  release. ' ' 

' '  But  he  leaves  a  son  in  the  business  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes,  a  very  good  man  of  business,  but  nothing  to  his 
father." 

"Oh!  what  will  mama  do?"  asked  Evelyn.  "Uncle 
Godfrey  is  so  much  to  her. ' ' 

Edith  would  lose  three  hundred  a  year  from  her  in- 
come, among  other  things ;  but,  as  she  tearfully  observed, 
she  lost  as  good  a  friend  as  she  had  ever  possessed,  and 
could  not  bring  herself  to  consider  the  sordid  details  to 
which  her  son  referred  later,  after  the  death  and  burial 
had  actually  taken  place. 

' '  But,  mother, ' '  said  Rosny,  whose  heart  was  heavy  as 
death  on  his  return  from  the  last  tribute  of  respect  to 
his  old  and  stanch  friend,  "are  you  prepared  to  do  with 
three  hundred  a  year  less  than  you  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  ?  I  will  make  it  up  to  within  a  hundred  for  the 
first  year,  but  I  can  not  promise  farther  ahead." 

' '  Dear  Richard,  pray,  pray  clear  your  mind  of  these 
degrading  apprehensions.  Take  shorter  views  of  life, 
dear,  and  cultivate  a  more  trustful  spirit.  We  must  take 
things  as  they  come, ' '  was  the  philosophic  rebuke  he  re- 
ceived in  reply. 

But  no  attempt  to  live  within  narrower  limits  wras  ob- 
servable at"  the  Pines,  and  Rosny,  in  view  of  the  bills  that 


THE    LITTLE   RIFT  229 

kept  surging  in  from  unexpected  quarters  and  that  could 
not  be  met  by  the  originally  covenanted  income,  gradu- 
ally came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  best  to  face  the 
inevitable  and  strain  every  nerve  to  make  up,  not  only 
the  deficiency  consequent  on  Godfrey  Belton's  demise, 
but  also  the  surplus  expenditure  that  he  seemed  powerless 
to  stay,  even  at  the  cost  of  bickerings  and  misunderstand- 
ings such  as  wear  out  the  finer  fibers  of  the  heart  and 
make  of  life  a  sordid  misery. 

In  the  meantime  it  grieved  him  to  be  obliged  to  be 
less  at  the  cottage,  though  for  a  few  summer  weeks  Nancy 
Rosny  came  to  companion  Evelyn  during  the  long  va- 
cation which  preceded  the  taking  of  the  high  degree 
that  fitted  Annis  for  the  important  post  she  afterward 
held. 

Soon  after  Nancy  left  the  cottage,  the  joy-bells  rang 
out  again  for  the  birth  of  Evelyn's  son.  Rosny  rejoiced 
greatly  over  this  powerful  rival  for  the  supreme  place  in 
his  wife's  affections,  and  was  glad  that  her  days  would 
henceforth  be  full  and  companioned  enough  during  his 
long  absences.  For  he  saw  that  the  joy-bells  rang  in  her 
heart,  too,  and  that  the  small,  soft  creature  cradled  on 
her  arm  completely  filled  the  horizon  of  her  thoughts  for 
the  time  being,  that  its  vague  and  aimless  movements,  its 
gurglings  and  cooings,  its  very  breathing,  filled  her  with 
joy  and  perpetual  wonder. 

When  first  he  looked  upon  this  helpless  pair  and  felt 
their  dependence  upon  him,  he  was  moved  beyond  power 
of  speech,  and  only  smiled  back  in  answer  to  the  appeal 
in  Evelyn's  dark  and  liquid  eyes — larger,  darker,  and 
softer  than  ever  in  this  hour  of  weakness.  He  was  sur- 
prised to  be  so  touched  by  that  frail  and  unconscious 
morsel  of  humanity,  with  its  wrinkled  red  face  and  per- 
petually opening  mouth,  and  crumpled  fists,  already,  as 
it  seemed,  balled  in  unconscious  defiance  of  fate.  He 
went  into  the  wainscoted  parlor  and  looked  at  his  fath- 
er's picture  and  the  two  swords  beneath  it,  and  thought 
of  a  third  sword,  that  Gerald — so  the  child  had  been 


230  RICHARD   ROSNY 

named  before  its  birth — should  bear  one  day  with  honor 
and  joy,  and  should  never  be  compelled  to  lay  aside  while 
he  could  bear  it,  and  his  eyes  grew  wet  and  his  heart 
went  up  in  prayer  and  thanksgiving.  To  be  forgiven  so 
much,  to  be  allowed  all  the  deepest  and  most  satisfying 
human  joys.  It  was  almost  too  much. 

"Isn't  he  like  Richard,  mama?"  Evelyn  asked  when 
Edith  took  her  grandson  in  her  arms  and  appraised  his 
beauties  with  discriminating  criticism. 

"Was  I  ever  really  as  ugly  as  all  that?"  Richard 
asked  in  genuine  astonishment. 

'  *  Never  mind,  dear, ' '  Edith  said  afterward,  ' '  men  are 
like  that.  They  never  notice  children  till  they  begin  to 
talk." 

But  this  baby  never  began  to  talk.  Evelyn  rejoiced 
in  him  through  the  sunshiny  autumn  and  winter,  and 
Richard  looked  on  and  listened  to  many  details  of  his 
brief  and  uneventful  history  with  bored  content,  well 
pleased  at  the  light  in  Evelyn's  eyes  and  the  happy  flush 
and  fulness  in  her  cheeks ;  the  sisters  came  over  from  the 
Pines,  and  Nancy  interrupted  her  grave  studies  to  come 
and  admire  the  fine  little  boy,  and  Gerald  and  Archie 
consented  to  be  godfathers. 

One  evening  when  the  leaves  were  thinning,  the  days 
shortening,  and  the  fruit  gathered  in,  Richard  came  home 
in  happy  anticipation  of  a  restful  fireside  hour  to  find 
the  house  in  disorder  and  Evelyn,  white  and  tearless, 
clasping  a  dying  child  in  her  arms.  A  few  days  later 
he  laid  the  little  body  in  his  father 's  grave  with  a  heart- 
pang  that  was  more  for  Evelyn  than  for  himself  or  the 
boy. 

After  a  time,  he  persuaded  her  to  go  away  for  a  few 
weeks,  and  brought  her  back  again  a  little  before  Christ- 
mas on  a  frosty,  starry  evening,  when  the  joy-bells  were 
ringing  gaily  to  welcome  the  new  vicar.  He  was  per- 
plexed to  find  that  the  bells,  instead  of  cheering  Evelyn, 
made  her  cry  bitterly.  "Her  baby  is  alive,"  was  the 
only  explanation  he  could  gather  of  this  mystery. 


THE   LITTLE   RIFT  231 

' '  Surely  you  would  not  have  had  it  die, ' '  he  returned 
gravely. 

' '  You  don 't  understand ;  you  never  understand, ' '  was 
the  irritated  reply. 

"Poor  child!"  he  thought;  "her  nerves  are  all  to 
pieces,"  and  made  some  gentle  answer  and  tried  some 
gentle  diversion  of  thought. 

The  usual  calls  were  exchanged  between  the  two 
houses,  on  his  part  vicariously,  so  that  he  met  Kathleen 
for  the  first  time  as  his  guest  in  his  own  house. 

There  was  no  party,  Evelyn's  mourning  excusing  her 
from  all  but  the  simplest  social  courtesies,  only  the 
Maynes  and  themselves  at  an  eight  o  'clock  dinner,  which 
left  him  barely  time  to  rush  home  from  the  station  and 
dress.  Some  little  detail  of  a  missing  stud  or  crumpled 
tie  made  it  some  minutes  after  eight  before  he  appeared 
in  the  parlor  with  a  strangely  beating  heart  and  a 
strangely  confused  manner,  hardly  concealed  by  apolo- 
gies for  lateness.  Yet  he  had  paused  outside  the  door, 
handle  in  hand,  for  some  seconds,  before  gathering  cour- 
age to  open  it  and  come  in  to  the  familiar  room,  warm 
with  firelight  and  bright  with  shaded  lamps. 

Kathleen  had  forgotten,  no  more  than  he  had,  their 
last  agitated  meeting  and  parting  on  the  down  on  that 
bright  spring  afternoon.  She  had  chosen  her  seat  care- 
fully that  her  face  might  be  in  shadow  and  its  changes, 
when  the  expected  step  was  heard,  unseen.  One  false 
alarm  caused  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant  with  a  note 
and  the  apprehension  of  another,  made  it  a  relief  to  her 
when  the  door  opened  at  last  to  admit  the  tall  figure  so 
well  remembered  yet  now  so  different.  The  grave, 
bearded  face  at  first  glance  seemed  a  stranger's,  but  was 
only  too  well  recognized  by  the  deep  eyes  and  direct  and 
fiery,  yet  singularly  sad,  glance. 

' '  We  need  no  introduction, ' '  he  said,  walking  up  with 
outstretched  hands  to  the  graceful  woman,  whose  face 
and  form  were  at  once  so  unrecognizable  and  so  unf orget- 
able. 


232  RICHARD    ROSNY 

"Scarcely;  we  are  such  old  acquaintances,"  she  re- 
plied, deliberately  yet  tremblingly  meeting  the  direct  and 
penetrating  gaze,  and  feeling  the  room  swim  round  and 
right  itself  again  with  a  stagger,  when  the  strong  hand 
closed  firmly  upon  hers.  The  old  days  grew  vivid  and 
fresh  again  while  he  seemed  to  be  seeking  and  question- 
ing for  what  was  forever  lost  in  that  long,  deep,  and  burn- 
ing look,  that  pierced  her  through  and  through  and 
weighed  and  measured  and  sifted  her  to  the  last  thought. 

"But  my  husband,"  she  added,  catching  her  breath 
before  she  could  speak;  "you  need  an  introduction  to 
him." 

"Scarcely  either,"  replied  the  grave  and  handsome 
clergyman,  coming  forward  with  an  open  hand  and  win- 
ning smile ;  "my  wife's  friends  are  mine,  and  I  know  you 
well  by  report. ' ' 

The  two  men  faced  each  other  a  moment  before  tak- 
ing hands,  each  face  darkening,  each  glance  growing  stern 
almost  to  defiance,  each  interrogating  the  other's  in  a 
sort  of  armed  but  quiescent  hostility,  but  each  softening 
to  something  kinder  than  conventional  courtesy,  when  the 
hands  clasped  at  last  more  lingeringly  and  closely  than 
is  usual  at  a  first  meeting. 

Then  Rosny  found  himself,  like  one  in  some  wild,  in- 
congruous dream,  with  Kathleen  on  his  arm  and  com- 
monplaces on  his  lips,  in  the  tiny  hall  and  then  in  the 
dining-parlor,  where  the  light,  except  from  the  blazing 
hearth,  was  chiefly  from  shaded  candles  on  the  table ,  and 
it  was  long  before  he  got  courage  to  look  round  and  ap- 
praise the  one  bright  figure  of  the  quartet,  Evelyn  being 
all  in  black  for  the  baby.  Kathleen  was  in  a  soft  and 
shimmering  fabric  of  faint  blush-color,  open  at  the 
throat  to  disclose  a  string  of  pearls  that  recalled  the  most 
poignant  moments  of  his  life,  with  bare,  round  arms  and 
veiled  shoulders.  The  bright  hair  had  darkened  and 
lost  its  first  luster,  the  face  had  entirely  changed  its  char- 
acter, the  lips  grown  firm,  the  slender  limbs  and  slight 
figure  filled  out ;  the  look  and  voice,  figure  and  manner, 


THE    LITTLE   RIFT  233 

were  those  of  a  mature  and  very  self-possessed  woman. 
Kitty  Musgrave  was  gone,  gone,  as  surely  and  irrevocably 
as  the  leaves  of  the  spring  in  which  they  had  parted.  He 
suddenly  realized  the  wide  gulf  of  years  that  lay  between 
their  two  meetings  and  wondered  at  all  the  passion  and 
pain  of  those  days,  wondered  still  more  when  he  looked 
across  the  table  at  Evelyn,  whose  youth  and  fresh  beauty, 
enhanced  by  the  tender  sadness  of  bereavement  that 
deepened  her  dark  eyes  and  filled  them  with  touching 
wistfulness,  came  upon  him  with  a  shock  of  surprise 
and  gladness.  Strange  that  Evelyn 's  first  attraction  had 
been  her  likeness  to  Kathleen;  he  saw  very  clearly  now 
that  all  the  likeness  between  them  had  been  but  youth  and 
grace,  and  that  singular  charm  of  sex  that  springs  from 
the  deeper  necessities  of  human  nature  with  blinding, 
and  sometimes  lasting,  glamour. 

"I  hope  you  will  often  come  to  see  my  wife,  Mrs. 
Mayne,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  voice;  "she  is  too  much 
alone,  and  just  now — you  know  her  trouble — nobody  but 
a  woman  can  do  her  any  good." 

' '  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that, ' '  Kathleen  replied,  lifting 
her  grave  blue  eyes  from  her  plate ;  ' '  but  I  hope  she  will 
let  me  come.  I  hope  we  shall  be  good  friends  in  time.  I 
am  sure  we  shall. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXI 

KITTY   MAYNE 

"I  LIKE  the  man,"  Herbert  Mayne  said,  when  the 
cottage  door  had  closed  behind  the  Maynes  and  they  were 
walking  home,  well-muffled  from  the  frosty  cold,  between 
bare  and  icy  hedgerows,  their  steps  ringing  on  the  iron- 
bound  road.  "There's  good  stuff  in  that  man,  Kitty, 
first-rate  stuff.  One  doesn't  see  all.  There's  so  much 
reserve  force." 

"Yes,  he  has  a  fine  nature.  I  used  to  be  proud  of 
him, ' '  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh. 

"I  can't  understand  your  throwing  him  over,  Kit, 
young  as  you  were.  You  couldn't  have  cared  for  him 
really." 

"Not  for  him,  Herbert.  But,  oh!  I  did  care  for  the 
ideal  Richard,  the  man  I  thought  him." 

"And  left  him  at  his  need?  At  the  turning-point, 
when  it  was  touch  and  go  with  his  character  ?  No,  no ; 
that  wasn't  love.  'Love  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of 
doom.'  " 

She  shivered  and  pressed  closer  to  her  husband 's  side. 
"  Oh !  not  to  that  doom, ' '  she  said.  ' '  How  could  it  have 
been  ?  How  could  I  look  up  to  such  a  man  ?  What  fel- 
lowship could  I  have  had  with  him?  The  man  I  loved 
was  not  the  man  who  told  me — of  his  sin. ' ' 

"No,  but  a  much  better  man.  It  was  not  wise — 
worldly-wise,  that  is — but  it  was  right,  heroically  right. 
If  you  had  loved  him  you  would  have  stood  by  him  and 
loved  him  all  the  more  for  his  penitence  and  honesty. 
You  would  not  have  left  him  to  fight  it  out  alone,  to  face 
temptation,  despair,  perhaps.  Mind  you,  I  don't  say 
234 


KITTY    MAYNE  235 

that  you  were  wrong.  That  man  has  suffered ;  it  is  writ- 
ten in  his  face  and  sounds  in  his  voice;  he  has  suffered 
spiritually,  he  has  wrestled  and  overcome.  You  were 
very  young  and  quite  ignorant  of  evil,  and  the  shock  must 
have  been  awful ;  but  it  could  not  have  killed  love,  only 
strengthened  and  deepened  it,  set  it  on  a  higher  level." 

' '  If  you  could  have  seen  me  then,  Herbert !  Well,  I 
suffered,  I  nearly  died.  It  was  not  till  after  I  knew  you 
that  I  began  to  recover  at  all.  You  were  the  Perseus  who 
slew  the  sea-monster  of  grief  and  delivered  Androm- 
eda from  her  rock.  Even  now — well !  I  am  thankful 
that  first  meeting  is  over.  It  is  all  right  now.  He  has 
completely  forgotten  and  is  quite  happy  with  that  very 
pretty  and  charming  girl.  I  can  meet  them  now  as 
unconcernedly  as — as  if  they  were  the  postman — or  the 
sexton " 

"Not  being  exactly  or  entirely  wretched  in  your  own 
marriage,  eh?" 

"Not  being  absolutely  and  entirely  wretched  in  my 
own  marriage.  How  little  I  dreamed  that  you  would 
bring  me  into  contact  with  him — even  when  you  were 
actually  presented  to  the  living !  Not  that  I  mind  now — 
though  I  would  rather  somebody  else  lived  at  the  cot- 
tage. I  have  a  sort  of  horror  of  him,  Herbert — I  always 
felt  that  I  must  have  some  one  to  lean  on — felt  that  I 
could  never  marry  any  but  a  perfectly  spotless  man. ' ' 

; '  Ah !  but  who  is  spotless,  Kathleen  ?  Not  your  hus- 
band, my  dear.  It  is  true  that  I  have  been  among  the 
happy  few  who  are  kept  in  the  hour  of  temptation — I  am 
deeply  thankful  for  that — from  many  sins  of  youth.  But 
I  had  very  early  a  deep  sense  of  religion,  had  been  relig- 
iously trained  and  warned  and  given  the  habit  of  prayer, 
and  so  was  guided  and  guarded  through  the  furnace  of 
a  public  school,  and  so  entered  manhood  unscathed  and 
strong.  That  is  a  great  and  inestimable  blessing.  But 
those  who,  having  fallen,  have  strength  to  rise  again, 
those  who  make  the  very  angels  rejoice  in  the  Presence 
by  their  difficult  and  painful  repentance,  surely  tliey  are 


236  RICHARD   ROSNY 

worthy  of  deepest  reverence ;  their  shields  are  dinted  and 
their  bodies  scarred,  but  they  have  overcome,  they  have 
a  something  that  the  just  who  need  no  repentance  can  not 
have." 

' '  Ah,  yes ;  their  scars  •  those  never  leave  them. ' ' 
"No.  They  become  marks  of  honor.  It's  a  great 
mystery,  child.  It 's  not  the  sin  that  raises  them  and 
brings  them  to  even  greater  spiritual  heights  than  are 
reached  by  the  comparatively  just;  it's  the  repentance, 
the  bitter  grief,  the  deep  humiliation,  the  difficult  turn- 
ing away,  the  deadly  spiritual  conflict  that  strengthens, 
purifies  and  molds  their  manhood  and  makes  them 
knights  of  holiness.  And  those  who  are  forgiven  much 
must  love  much.  Repentance  is  a  great  thing,  the  key- 
stone and  foundation  of  the  Christian  religion.  Well, 
dear,  I  hope  you  will  forget  this  feeling  of  horror  and 
learn  to  reverence  this  man  for  his  present  goodness  and 
past  conflict.  I'm  wonderfully  drawn  to  him  myself. 
I  'm  much  attracted  by  the  philanthropic  turn  he  gives  to 
commerce  in  this  age  of  fraud  and  overreaching  and 
selfish  money-grubbing.  After  all,  why  should  commerce 
be  excluded  from  the  domain  of  Christianity  ?  Why  not 
trade  in  a  Christian  spirit  ?  Why  not  put  religion  first  in 
commerce  as  in  all  else  ?  Imagine  what  a  great  commer- 
cial nation  might  be  if  service  and  not  gain  were  made 
the  end  of  trade,  if  people  manufactured  and  sold  for  the 
good  of  man  and  the  honor  of  his  Maker,  if  every  trader 
put  self  last  and  the  public  good  first.  But  self  will  leave 
everything  before  it  leaves  trade.  It  is  leaving — not 
exactly  politics — but  policy.  I  think  we  may  venture 
to  hope  that  altruism  is  at  least  the  ideal  of  our  foreign 
and  imperial  policy ;  it  is  the  avowed  and  obvious  aim  of 
all  our  internal  policy.  Self  must  leave  every  art  be- 
fore it  can  approach  success,  it  must  leave  every  great 
profession  too.  Art  followed  for  gain  is  impossible;  it 
carries  its  own  death-warrant  in  its  heart.  Some  day 
gain  will  cease  to  be  the  first  aim  even  of  trade.  Rosny 
works  toward  that  ideal.  He  put  it  clearly  in  a  few. 


KITTY   MAYNE  237 

words  at  the  opening  of  the  Guild  of  Honest  Trade,  of 
which  he  is  a  member.  It's  an  open  secret  that  he  orig- 
inated and  founded  the  Guild,  though  he  occupies  a  very 
inferior  post  in  it.  You  must  read  that  terse  little  speech, 
Kit.  Half  a  dozen  plain  words  and  a  new  world  pre- 
sented in  them.  Rosny  is  a  man." 

"It  seems  pretty  evident  that  you  would  have  pre- 
ferred me  to  marry  Mr.  Rosny.  Still,  I  scarcely  see  how 
the  thing  is  to  be  managed  at  this  hour  of  the  day,  even 
to  oblige  you.  And,  after  all,  I  am  resigned  to  my  pres- 
ent inferior  position.  I  am,  on  the  whole,  fairly  content 
to  be  Mrs.  Mayne. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  very  decided  objection 
to  the  present  state  of  affairs  myself,  Kit.  After  all,  a 
man  needs  discipline,  and  marriage  gives  it  to  the  full. 
The  comfort  and  peace  of  the  unmarried  man  is  danger- 
ous. How  clear  the  sky  is  to-night,  what  an  innumer- 
able blaze  of  stars !  They  seem  detached  from  the  sky, 
they  swing  free  in  space.  It's  a  good  world.  How 
cold  you  are,  child,  after  your  brisk  walk !  Here  we 
are." 

They  stepped  into  the  warm,  bright  vicarage,  which 
would  have  held  three  or  four  such  dwellings  as  the  cot- 
tage, and  shut  out  the  icy  night  with  all  its  stars,  and 
Kathleen  cowered  over  a  great  fire,  near  which  her  child 
slept  peacefully  in  its  cot,  and  was  very,  very  thankful, 
yet  strangely  sad. 

She  honestly  tried  to  cultivate  Evelyn's  friendship, 
but  was  perplexed  to  find  the  baby  anything  but  a  bind- 
ing force  between  them.  Evelyn  looked  at  it,  admired  it 
with  cold  civility,  and  turned  with  relief  from  it,  shrink- 
ing from  the  usual  young  matronly  talk  of  its  little  ways 
and  needs;  she  even  declined  the  honor  of  holding  the 
creature  in  her  arms. 

"It  is  just  as  well  that  her  baby  died, ' '  Mrs.  Mayne 

confided  to  her  husband;  "she  seems  actually  to  dislike 

babies.     It's    so    unnatural.     Harold's    crying    to-day 

actually  made  her  start  and  look  annoyed.     I  felt  quite 

16 


238  RICHARD    ROSNY 

guilty  and  apologized  as  one  would  to  a  man  or  an  old 
maid." 

"Singular;  one  would  have  thought  the  child  would 
be  a  comfort  to  her.  But  she  is  a  little  strange  and  unap- 
proachable. She  may  thaw  in  time.  What  in  the  world 
can  she  do  all  day  long?" 

That  was  the  question  Evelyn  asked  herself  day  after 
day,  as  the  winter  wore  on  and  the  pang  of  her  baby's 
death  dulled,  while  her  own  youth  asserted  itself  and 
ached  with  all  the  vague  and  wild  necessities  of  renewed 
vitality. 

' '  If  you  would  but  take  a  class  in  the  Sunday-school, 
dear  Mrs.  Rosny,"  Kathleen  urged  one  day;  "you  would 
find  it  such  an  interest  and  such  an  occupation.  Such  an 
escape  from  self." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  anything  to  teach,  and  I 
do  so  dislike  the  smell  of  schools, ' '  she  replied.  ' '  Besides, 
I  should  be  afraid  of  those  rough  children.  Indeed,  I'm 
no  good  for  that ;  altogether,  I  am  a  useless  creature.  I 
was  brought  up  at  school,  don't  you  know.  So  I  can't  do 
anything. ' ' 

' '  What  ?     W'ere  you  taught  to  do  nothing  at  school  ? ' ' 

"Indeed  we  were.  And  very  hard  work  it  was  to 
learn.  We  might  not  do  this,  and  must  not  do  that; 
young  ladies  must  know  nothing  about  the  other.  I  need 
scarcely  say  they  were  private  schools.  So  many  holi- 
days had  to  be  passed  at  school,  so  that  one  had  little  or 
no  home  life." 

' '  Poor  child,  how  very  sad !  But  you  lived  with  an 
uncle  and  aunt?" 

"Yes;  but  not  until  recently — within  the  last  three 
years.  And  that  was  a  migratory  existence.  We  were 
nomads,  dear  Mrs.  Mayne,  wandering  from  camp  to 
camp,  never  long  in  one  stay.  Oh,  it 's  very  cramping  to 
stay  at  private  schools  till  eighteen.  I  always  seem  to 
have  been  shut  out  of  everything,"  she  sighed,  opening 
her  hands  impatiently  and  almost  gasping  as  if  for  air; 
"shut  out  or  shut  in.  I  feel  sometimes  that  I  must  fly 


KITTY   MAYNE  239 

away  and  live,  I  must  begin  to  live.  I  can  not — oh,  what 
nonsense  I  am  talking!  It  comes  of  being  too  much 
alone,"  she  added,  rising  as  if  to  shake  off  unwelcome 
thoughts,  and  replenishing  the  fire  with  great  vigor  and 
flushed  cheeks. 

' '  Oh,  but  you  interest  me  exceedingly, ' '  Kitty  rejoined 
cordially;  "it's  so  nice  of  you  to  tell  me  about  yourself. 
I  am  older ;  I  have  lived  really.  I  might  be  of  use  to  you. 
Who  knows?  Richard — ah — your  husband — was  saying 
how  much  he  regretted  your  being  so  much  alone.  He 
hoped  we  might  become  friends.  Let  me  help  you,  dear 
child,  if  I  can." 

"You  knew  my  husband  long  ago?"  Evelyn  asked, 
with  one  of  her  long,  wistful  glances. 

' '  Surely.     Did  he  not  tell  you  ? " 

"Yes.  Men  are  odd  creatures;  he  seemed  to  think 
that  quite  a  sufficient  foundation  for  an  instant  and 
romantic  friendship  between  us, ' '  she  said,  with  a  cynical 
little  laugh;  "do  you?" 

She  stopped  blowing  the  fire,  with  the  bellows  in  her 
hand,  and  threw  back  her  head  with  a  graceful  movement 
to  bend  her  dark  and  lustrous  eyes  upon  the  face  of 
Kitty,  who  turned  crimson  and  quailed  before  the  ear- 
nest, searching  gaze,  becoming  suddenly  conscious  of  the 
increasing  beauty  of  the  young  face  turned  toward  her 
and  of  the  fulness  of  soft  red  lips,  the  flush  of  velvet 
cheeks,  the  soft  purity  of  the  forehead  under  straying 
tendrils  of  shining  hair,  the  fine  poise  of  the  full  white 
throat  and  the  beautiful  contours  of  the  figure  kneeling 
in  firelight  on  the  hearth.  The  pathos  and  a  curious 
unconsciousness  in  this  sweet  face  appealed  to  her,  while 
a  vague  jealousy  repelled  her;  only  she  did  not  call  it 
jealousy,  but  wondered  why  the  youth  and  beauty  and 
pathos  of  this  lonely,  unsatisfied  woman  should  be  as  a 
pain  to  her. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  faltered,  unconsciously  compar- 
ing her  own  face  with  its  lost  bloom  and  her  own  dress, 
that,  without  being  careless  or  really  dowdy,  was  neither 


240  RICHARD   ROSNY 

so  dainty  nor  so  much  cared  for  as  it  had  been  in  old 
days,  with  Evelyn's,  "how  very  frank  you  are!  But, 
indeed,  men  are  curious  beings.  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
think  you  have  been  exceptionally  sweet  in  your  recep- 
tion of  me.  Of  course — well !  The  situation  is  never 
quite  easy;  it  often — but  I  hope  we  are  both  above  that 
sort  of  pettiness " 

"Which  situation,  and  what  pettiness?"  asked 
Evelyn,  rising  and  laying  the  bellows  aside  without  with- 
drawing her  inquiring,  perplexed  gaze  from  Kathleen's 
confused  face.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  haven 't  been  at  all  sweet, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  very  grumpy  and  dreary — you  know 
my  trouble,  please  don't  refer  to  it — those  things  make 
people  unsocial." 

"But  don't  you  know,"  said  Kathleen,  startled  into 
still  greater  frankness,  "of  Richard — of  our — that  we 
were  engaged?" 

"Engaged?  Engaged  to  be  married?  You  to  my 
husband  ?  Certainly  not, ' '  returned  Evelyn,  still  stand- 
ing in  the  blaze  of  the  hearth  and  looking  down  upon  her 
guest  with  haughty  indignation,  dashed  with  pain. 

"He  never  told  you?  Then  I — I  wish  I  had  not 
spoken.  Oh,  Mrs.  Rosny,  he  never  told  you  why  we 
parted  ? ' '  she  added,  with  sudden  horror. 

' '  Stay, ' '  returned  Evelyn  quickly,  with  a  little  gasp ; 
' '  I  remember  now,  but  I  had  forgotten ;  it  seems  so  long 
since  we  married ;  he  did  tell  me  of  his  engagement  years 
and  years  ago,  when  he  was  very  young.  The  thing  had 
escaped  my  memory  entirely.  Why,  of  course ;  you  were 
neighbors  at  Ingrestone." 

' '  Yes,  we  were  neighbors — at  Ingrestone — many  years 
ago.  I — I  was  not  as  heartless  as — as  some  people  sup- 
posed," replied  Kathleen,  looking  away  from  the  search- 
ing, dark  gaze  that  could  not  be  escaped.  ' '  I  don 't  know 
how  much  he  told  you,  or  whether  what  he  told  you  would 
prejudice  you  against  me.  It's  all  ancient  history  now, 
done  and  over  and  forgotten — yet  I  think  I  should  like 
you  to  know — because  I  wish  to  be  quite  frank  and  really 


KITTY   MAYNE  241 

wish  to  win  your  friendship  and  confidence — I  should 
like  you  to  know  that  I  really  cared  for  him — I  had  cared 
for  no  man  before — nor  have  I  since  in  any  serious  sense 
— until  I  met  my  dear  husband." 

"And  yet,"  added  Evelyn,  now  quite  mistress  of  her- 
self and  rapidly  piecing  things  together  in  her  brain  as 
she  made  strokes  in  the  dark;  "and  yet  you  jilted  him — 
left  him  broken-hearted  ? ' ' 

"Jilt  is  a  hard  word,  Evelyn.  He  would  scarcely 
use  it ;  he  knew  why  I  could  not — fulfil  my  engagement. 
There  was  no  concealment  on  either  side.  I  see  that  you 
think  me  wrong.  Nay,  the  very  fact  of  your  marriage 
shows  that  you  think  me  wrong.  We  are  very  differently 
constituted,  you  and  I.  He — he  is  generous  and  large- 
hearted,  whatever  his  faults.  He  would  not — nay,  he 
could  not — refuse  me  the  freedom  I  asked ;  but  I  doubt  if 
he  ever  suspected  that  he  was  not  the  greater  sufferer  of 
the  two.  It  is  just  as  well.  For  he  is  healed  and  happy 
now,  as  I  am.  We  meet  quite  tranquilly  as  friends,  and 
he  does  me  the  honor  to  wish  me  to  be  his  wife 's  friend, 
as  I  trust  I  shall  be.  And  men  forget  so  much  quicker 
than  women,  especially  men  of  his  temperament — per- 
haps I  scarcely  realized  that  in  those  young  days,  when 
he  was  young,  too.  The  most  impassioned  lovers  are  the 
most  easily  consoled.  The  adage, '  Love  me  little,  love  me 
long, '  is  very  true  of  men.  That  vehemence  of  Richard 's 
is  both  his  strength  and  his  weakness;  he  never  does 
things  by  halves.  But  I  must  go,  dear;  I  had  no  idea 
how  time  has  been  running  away." 

' '  Don 't  go,  dear  Mrs.  Mayne ;  come  in  to  lunch  with 
me  first, ' '  Evelyn  said  tranquilly,  though  she  had  grown 
very  pale  during  Kathleen's  broken  confidences,  every 
tone  and  look  and  gesture  accompanying  which  had  been 
well  weighed  and  noted  down  in  her  memory,  with  the 
words  themselves,  and  all  possible  meanings  and  sug- 
gestions they  were  capable  of  conveying.  "Must  you 
really  go?  Another  time,  then,  though  I  think  Mr. 
Mayne  might  be  disappointed  this  once — for  the  good  of 


242  RICHARD    ROSNY 

his  soul.  Ah!  I  had  forgotten  the  poor  baby.  Good- 
by,  then." 

It  was  but  a  step  from  the  parlor  to  the  hall  door, 
and  Evelyn  accompanied  her  guest  thither  with  all  pro- 
priety and  politeness,  with  some  promise  of  future  lunch- 
ing at  the  vicarage,  and  stood  smiling  in  the  wintry  sun- 
shine that  just  then  broke  from  a  relenting  sky  of  dull 
cloud,  to  nod  a  last  good-by  to  Kathleen  as  she  turned 
at  the  gate.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  parlor,  and, 
throwing  herself  on  a  pillowed  oaken  settle,  face  down- 
ward, sobbed  like  a  child  with  all  a  child's  passionate 
rebellion  until  the  sympathizing  parlor-maid,  tired  of 
sounding  the  gong  for  nothing,  ventured  to  come  in  and 
remonstrate  and  beg  her  not  to  give  way,  but  come  and 
"take  a  bit  of  something"  instead. 

"It  is  but  natural,  ma  'am ;  it  do  come  upon  anybody 
at  times,"  she  said;  "but  it  is  wonderful  how  a  little 
something  heartens  anybody  up  of  a  cold  day,  and  seeing 
Mrs.  Mayne  and  all  and  bringing  it  to  mind.  There's 
Master '11  be  home  by  the  early  train  to-night,  and  the 
turn  of  the  day 's  come  and  all.  So  do  try  to  take  a  bit 
and  cheer  up." 

Evelyn  raised  her  wet  face  with  a  smile  for  the  kind- 
hearted  girl,  and  stroked  back  her  ruffled  hair,  dried  her 
eyes,  and  went,  with  the  childlike  air  that  won  her  much 
tender  consideration  on  all  sides,  to  table,  meekly  listen- 
ing to  her  handmaiden 's  brisk  attempt  to  cheer  her  lone- 
someness  and  meekly  accepting  the  food  pressed  upon 
her,  in  a  way  that  went  to  the  girl 's  heart ;  but  with  no 
such  result  as  that  predicted. 

She  felt  that  she  had  had  a  blow  from  which  she  could 
never  recover — never.  Richard  engaged  to  Mrs.  Mayne, 
Richard  jilted  by  that  middle-aged — for  so  she  seemed  to 
Evelyn — that  middle-aged  clergyman's  wife,  that  exces- 
sively tame  and  correct  person,  with  her  nursery  and  her 
parish,  her  endless  small  occupations  and  interests,  her 
absorption  in  choir-singing  and  services,  mothers'  meet- 
ings and  villagers,  his  heart  occupied  and  broken,  years 


KITTY    MAYNE  243 

ago  before  ever  he  saw  herself;  it  was  incredible,  intol- 
erable. And  Richard  vehement,  one  of  "those  passion- 
ate natures?"  that  cold,  undemonstrative  man,  against 
whose  hard,  unresponsive  nature  she  continuously  bruised 
and  shattered  the  tenderness  and  passion  of  her  own? 
Her  stern,  cold  husband  a  "most  impassioned  lover?" 
Ah!  yes;  for  Kathleen,  and  in  his  youth,  never,  never, 
never  for  her.  At  last  she  understood. 

An  immeasurable  longing  to  be  away  and  alone  seized 
her,  away  anywhere  out  of  that  house,  that  was  no  home 
but  a  prison.  Lonely  enough  she  had  been  in  it,  yet  she 
could  not  be  quite  alone  there,  with  servants  looking  on 
and  pitying,  and  with  so  many  associations,  suggestions, 
and  evidences  of  Richard  everywhere,  in  the  very  walls. 
So  she  went  out,  followed  by  the  retriever,  Rollo,  joyously 
barking  at  the  prospect  of  a  walk.  She  instinctively 
made  for  the  sea,  which  is  ever  a  silent  confidant,  refuge 
and  escape,  in  its  immensity  and  perpetual  movement 
and  song,  and  took  the  path  Richard  had  taken  in  his  first 
great  grief,  and  where  he  had  walked  with  her  in  the  joy 
of  their  home-coming,  telling  her  of  that  old  sorrow  that 
had  tinctured  all  his  life. 

But  her  pain  was  too  deep  and  bitter  to  admit  of  any 
such  memories;  she  stepped  quickly  and  lightly,  circled 
by  the  dog's  gambols,  over  the  fields,  under  the  sky  of 
breaking  cloud,  unobservant,  absorbed  in  a  passion  of 
misery  and  revolt,  torn  by  jealousy  and  tortured  by 
wounded  love,  uncheered  by  gleams  of  sun  and  balm  of 
soft  spring  airs,  by  budding  hedgerows  and  opening  eyes 
of  golden  celandines,  unsoothed  by  the  wren 's  treble  song 
and  the  coo-cooing  of  pigeons  under  their  warm  roof 
of  pine  branches,  till  she  came  to  that  sheltered  nook  in 
the  cliff  that  Richard  knew,  with  the  broad  sea  spreading 
its  gray  and  polished  surface  far  down  before  her  eyes 
and  filling  her  ears  with  the  boom  of  breakers  on  reef 
and  rock  and  the  wash  of  quiet  waves  on  the  shore. 

Kathleen  Mayne  had  known  his  love,  but  she  only 
knew — what?  The  quickly  extinguished  warmth  of  a 


244  RICHARD    ROSNY 

spent  and  disappointed  life.  It  was  very  clear  now  wrhy 
she  was  neglected.  He  had  scarcely  denied,  what  was 
evident  to  every  eye,  that  his  mother  came  before  her  in 
his  affections ;  he  had  not  cared  for  the  child ;  he  had  shed 
no  tear,  not  one,  for  the  poor  little  lost  life.  All  his  affec- 
tions were  centered  in  that  household  at  the  Pines.  All 
his  labors  and  thoughts  were  for  them.  They  lived  in 
luxury  of  his  making  while  he  had  asked  her  to  share 
poverty  with  him.  She  could  have  been  content  with 
poverty,  provided  love  had  come  into  the  bargain. 
Healed  and  happy  was  he?  Not  at  all.  He  still  cared 
for  this  woman,  who  might  have  been  pretty  in  those 
young  days. 

Why  had  he  not  told  her  of  the  situation  which  Mrs. 
Mayne  had  rightly  called  difficult  ?  It  was  atrocious  that 
she  should  have  made  this  woman's  acquaintance  in  igno- 
rance ;  it  put  her  in  a  false  position ;  Mrs.  Mayne  had  her- 
self been  shocked  at  it.  And  why  had  they  parted? 
There  was  some  mystery  here.  Could  she  forget  the 
amazement  and  horror  in  Kathleen 's  face  when  she  asked 
if  he  had  never  told  her  why  they  parted,  or  her  assump- 
tion that  the  fact  of  her  marriage  with  Eichard  stamped 
her  as  of  a  different  nature  to  herself?  She  could  not 
understand  this  preoccupied,  unemotional  man  who  had 
married  her,  presumably,  that  he  might  have  some  one  to 
manage  his  hermitage — it  was  hardly  a  home — and  his 
income,  and  save  him  the  minor  worries  of  existence; 
every  day  made  him  less  comprehensible  and  put  them 
farther  apart.  He  was  beginning  to  inspire  her  with 
repugnance ;  she  could  not  go  on  loving  a  heart  of  stone. 
How  lonely  she  had  been  all  her  life,  she  reflected  with 
sudden  tears  of  self-pity ;  how  deeply  she  had  longed  for 
the  love  she  had  seemed  to  surprise  in  the  eyes  of  the  dis- 
tinguished-looking stranger,  whose  figure  suddenly  came 
into  her  dream  and  captivated  her  girlish  fancy  that 
afternoon  on  the  river.  She  could  always  see  that  fine, 
grave  face,  bearded  and  sad,  yet  so  full  of  fire  and  ten- 
derness, always  feel  the  strange  flame  of  the  deep  blue 


KITTY   MAYNE  245 

eyes  burning  through  her,  with  the  exquisite  sense  of 
repose  and  shelter  the  strong  figure  gave  her  when  she 
recalled  that  day.  The  touch  of  frost  on  hair  and  beard 
added  to  the  dignity  and  pathos  of  the  strong,  beautiful 
face ;  she  was  so  young,  so  much  younger  than  her  years, 
that  age  had  a  charm  for  her;  she  felt  honored  by  the 
interest  she  excited  in  her  elder. 

Loved  at  last,  her  loneliness  gone  forever,  she  could 
dare  be  herself  and  live  at  full  tide,  she  had  thought,  in 
the  sunshine  of  his  presence  and  glances  in  those  first 
romantic  days.  Then  the  terrible  time  when  his  visits 
became  few  and  the  prospect  of  never  seeing  him  again 
had  to  be  faced,  and  then  the  exquisite,  agonized  moment 
of  her  danger  and  deliverance  at  the  station,  when  she 
fell,  not  to  the  ground,  but  into  his  protecting  arms,  and 
thought  herself  safe  and  sheltered  for  life  in  his  love. 
— a  dream  long  since  dissipated. 

How  young  and  ignorant  she  had  been  in  those  days, 
how  little  she  had  known  of  life,  how  much  less  of  mar- 
riage! To  be  the  center  and  sun  of  a  man's  life,  the 
source  and  end  of  all  his  hopes  and  cares,  the  confidante 
of  all  his  thoughts  and  actions,  his  counselor,  controller, 
and  inseparable  companion,  to  feel  him  troubled  by  her 
pain,  rejoiced  by  her  joy,  and  hungry  for  her  love ;  to  be 
sheltered  and  fenced  from  the  bitter  world  in  the  warmth 
of  home;  above  all,  to  be  "compassed  with  sweet  observ- 
ances" in  her  poet's  words — such  had  been  her  maiden 
dream  of  marriage.  And  it  was  false.  He  did  not  so 
much  as  love  her,  though  he  had  been,  perhaps  still  was, 
"an  impassioned  lover"  of  that  other  woman.  She  had 
looked  forward  to  marriage  as  a  deliverance  from  the 
fetters  and  barriers  that  surround  a  superfluous  woman 
in  a  half-grudged  home,  as  a  means  of  tasting  that  ful- 
ness of  life  from  which  one  in  tutelage  is  perpetually 
debarred ;  but  marriage  had  only  forged  fresh  fetters  and 
raised  new  barriers  round  her.  She  felt  herself  capable 
of  so  much,  thirsted  so  strongly  for  life ;  yet  here  she  was 
in  the  bloom  of  her  days,  cribbed,  cabined,  and  confined, 


246  RICHARD    ROSNY 

cut  off  and  cast  away  in  this  dull  and  stagnant  back 
water,  while  the  great  full  river  of  life  rolled  majestically 
past  her,  with  many  a  full-sailed  pageant  passing  upon 
the  flood  of  its  tide.  Yet  she  could  have  been  content  had 
she  known  that  love  which  was  forever  denied  her.  If 
the  child  had  lived — but  she  dared  not  think  of  her  little 
lost  babe,  for  whom  his  father  had  shed  no  tear. 

Hollo  laid  his  muzzle  on  her  knee  presently  and  looked 
up  understandingly  in  the  forlorn  young  face  that  tears 
did  but  embellish;  a  fresh  spring  gushed  out  and 
sprinkled  his  head  at  the  thought  of  being  reduced  to 
take  comfort  in  a  dog's  affection.  She  stroked  the  black 
head  absently,  remembering  the  increasing  beauty  her 
glass  showed  her  day  by  day.  But  what  is  beauty  in  a 
wilderness?  Even  her  husband  had  not  seen  it  by  day- 
light for  months,  except  on  Sundays,  when  he  probably 
never  observed  it.  Such  waste. 

The  day  faded  and  the  sea  shimmered  in  reflections  of 
amber  and  pink  and  purple.  She  listened  to  the  deep- 
ened roar  of  breakers  till  the  chill  of  twilight  compelled 
her  to  rise  and  go  home  under  a  sky  hung  with  vari- 
colored clouds  slowly  fading  over  the  green  west. 

A  dull  knocking  upon  a  wooden  fence  by  the  garden 
gate  made  her  aware  of  "that  carpenter  man,"  Seth 
Barton,  whom  Eichard  had  presented  to  her  as  "one  of 
my  oldest  and  best  friends" — as  if  one  could  be  friends 
with  an  ignorant  day-laborer — who  now  wished  her  good 
evening  and  left  off  hammering  to  open  the  gate  for  her 
and  ask  her  how  she  was. 

"It's  loansome  here  for  a  young  lady,"  he  said, 
"but  it  will  be  summertime  avore  long.  My  missus  she 
lost  her  first,  ma'am,  and  mis'ble  downhearted  she  was, 
couldn  't  zim  to  look  up  nohow.  But  she  've  a  rared  nine 
since;  she  never  buried  but  that  one.  You'll  look  up 
agen  avore  long,  ma'am,  with  the  birds  and  flowers  and 
everything  heartsome  and  pleasant.  And  downhearted 
or  not,  every  one  have  their  duty,  Good  night  to  ee. ' ' 

"Goodnight,  Barton." 


CHAPTER  XXII 
NANCY'S   ADVICE 

THE  dusk  was  deep  when  Evelyn  went  through  the 
garden  with  a  sick  heart  to  her  solitary  fireside,  where,  to 
her  great  and  glad  surprise,  she  found  a  well-known  fig- 
ure rising  out  of  the  shadows  with  open  arms  and  laugh- 
ing eyes. 

"Why,  Nancy,"  she  cried,  joyously  kissing  the  firm, 
cool  cheek  presented  to  her;  "is  it  you,  yourself?" 

' '  Oh !  it 's  me,  sure  enough.  And  very  cross  at  wait- 
ing so  long.  It's  term  holiday,  so  I  cycled  over  to  the 
Maynes  and  go  back  to-morrow,  my  first  call  in  their  new 
house.  I  '11  stay  here  till  it 's  time  to  go  back  and  dine  at 
the  vicarage.  I  sha'n't  wait  for  Richard.  But  perhaps 
you'll  persuade  him  to  bring  you  over  after  dinner;  the 
Maynes  will  be  so  glad." 

"And  do  you  like  the  grind  of  teaching?  And  is  it 
such  very  hard  work,  and  have  you  any  time  to  yourself 
at  all?  I  used  to  pity  the  governesses  at  school;  they 
never  had  any  fun,  nothing  but  fag  and  fuss  from  morn- 
ing till  night." 

"I  like  it  very  much.  But  I  should  like  some  tea 
now,  please.  These  high-schools  are  very  different  to  the 
old  boarding-schools.  We  only  see  our  pupils  in  class. 
It's  more  like  a  college  or  a  boys'  public  school.  I  have 
such  lovely  rooms  not  far  from  college,  Evelyn ;  you  must 
come  and  see  them.  Couldn't  you  come  over  with  Kitty 
Mayne  one  day?  Richard  would  never  have  time  and 
you  wouldn't  care  to  come  alone.  Some  of  the  college 
people  are  very  interesting,  and  many  old  Indians  and 
others  we  have  met  live  in  the  place,  and  one  or  two  old 

247 


248  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Cambridge  friends.  I  really  don 't  know  how  I  could  be 
more  happily  placed.  And  it  is  such  a  comfort  to  be  able 
to  pay  one's  own  way  and  relieve  dear  old  dad  from  one 
burden.  You  know  what  a  smash  he  made  by  investing 
in  that  dreadful  company.  They  are  leaving  Merstone, 
and  poor  Charlie  will  have  to  give  up  the  service  and  do 
something  at  once  for  a  salary.  That  is  the  worst  bit. 
Perhaps  he  may  get  into  Belton's,  as  Richard  will  have 
told  you.  But  I  'm  afraid  Charlie  is  not  cut  out  for  busi- 
ness. Now  for  your  news — I  mustn't  have  any  more 
cake;  the  Maynes  dine  at  seven." 

' '  How  I  envy  you ! ' '  sighed  Evelyn  tragically. 

"Which,  the  appetite  for  cake  or  the  seven-o'clock 
dinner?" 

"Everything,"  was  the  emphatic  reply,  into  which 
was  thrown  such  longing  disgust  and  despair  as  startled 
Nancy.  She  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth  in  its 
full  blaze,  dumb  with  a  surprise  and  concern  expressed  in 
her  brilliant  blue-gray  eyes  opened  to  their  widest  extent. 
These  eyes  were  the  finest  and  most  noticeable  feature 
in  a  face  but  moderately  well-favored,  pale  but  fairly 
healthy,  and  expressive  of  gentle  firmness  and  modest 
intelligence. 

"Evelyn,  you  to  envy  me?  In  the  second  year  of 
marriage  ?  Come  now,  what  have  I  that  you  have  not  1 ' ' 
she  said. 

"You  have  liberty;  you  have  an  object  in  life,  com- 
panionship, hope,  interesting  occupations,  friends." 

"This  sounds  tragic,  Evelyn.  I'm  afraid  you  are 
growing  morbid.  You  can 't  be  quite  well.  You ' ve  been 
crying.  I  wish  I  had  liberty,  and  I'd  take  you  away 
somewhere  and  rouse  you  up.  "Why  don't  you  go  to 
Florence  with  the  Beltons  ?  Adeline  was  quite  disap- 
pointed not  to  have  you." 

"One's  mother-in-law  is — a  mother-in-law  at  best. 
Besides — there  would  be  the  coming  back  again.  Oh! 
you  don't  know,  Nancy;  you  can't  imagine  what  it  is. 
Why  did  he  marry  me?  Why  couldn't  he  leave  me?" 


NANCY'S    ADVICE  249 

she  sobbed.  "I  didn't  know  what  marriage  meant;  I 
thought  it  was  all  love  and  happiness;  why  didn't  some- 
body tell  me?  He  never  cared  for  me,  never.  Why 
couldn't  he  let  me  be?" 

''What  has  Richard  been  doing?  What  have  you 
been  quarreling  about?" 

"Nothing.  He  couldn't  quarrel.  He  hasn't  heart 
enough.  He  doesn't  care  enough.  He  has  no  feeling; 
he  is  made  of  stone,  of  iron,  of  everything  hard  and  hor- 
rid and  detestable.  I  can't  live  with  him  much  longer 
or  I  shall  hate  him,  hate,  hate,  hate  him.  Nancy,  did  you 
ever  know  such  a  cold,  hard,  insensate  being  in  your  life  ? 
He  treats  me  as  if  I  were  part  of  the  furniture — or  the 
weather.  The  only  thing  he  cares  for  is  his  wretched 
business;  he  hasn't  a  thought  to  spare  for  anything  else." 

Nancy  went  over  to  the  oaken  settle,  where  Evelyn 
sat,  panting  with  passion,  and  silently  passed  her  arm 
round  her. 

"You  poor  little  thing!"  she  said  presently.  "You 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  You  are  hyster- 
ical; you  are  exaggerating  some  small  misdeed  of  poor 
Dick's  till  you  believe  in  the  bogie  of  your  own  creating. 
Have  it  out  with  him.  Tell  him  all  his  sins  and  he'll  tell 
you  he  never  meant  them.  But  tell  him  gently ;  don 't  say 
all  these  violent  things  to  him.  Men  don't  forget  hard 
words;  they  are  more  sensitive  than  we  in  that  respect. 
Richard  is  a  man  of  exceptionally  deep  and  steadfast 
feeling.  He  is  one  of  those  still,  strong  men  who  cover 
warm  and  sensitive  hearts  with  a  shield  of  silence  and 
reserve.  It 's  very  easy  to  make  such  a  man  suffer.  So 
very  easy  to  wound  such  a  man  beyond  healing. ' ' 

"Ah,  Nancy,  what  a  woman  you  are!  Your  first 
thought  is  for  the  man,  the  poor,  fragile,  unprotected 
man ;  men  must  be  tenderly  dealt  with,  wrapped  in  cotton- 
wool, no  matter  what  women  suffer,  you  think.  But  you 
don 't  know  Richard ;  you  have  not  the  misfortune  to  be 
married  to  him." 

"But  do  you  think  you  quite  understand  him,  Evie? 


250  RICHARD    ROSNY 

Granted  that  he  has  behaved  abominably,  are  there  no 
faults  on  the  other  side  ?  Don 't  take  up  the  absurd  idea 
that  he  doesn't  love  you ;  you  are  bound  to  believe  that  he 
does;  it  is  an  insult  to  believe  otherwise." 

' '  Ah !  you  don 't  know,  you  don 't  know. ' ' 

' '  Probably  not ;  but  it 's  quite  clear  that  you  two  have 
come  to  a  crisis  somehow.  Some  absurd  little  misunder- 
standing is  probably  at  the  bottom  of  all.  Be  patient,  my 
dear,  and  think  the  best  of  him — oh!  no  doubt  he's  a 
blackguard. ' ' 

"He  makes  me  so  unhappy,  Nancy,  so  very  un- 
happy." 

"Oh,  don't  bother  about  being  happy.  Try  to  make 
poor  old  Dick  happy  instead.  Oh !  Evelyn,  don 't  throw 
your  happiness  away.  However  much  people  may  love 
one  another,  all  their  happiness  must  depend  upon  duty 
and  forbearance." 

"But  the  forbearance  must  be  mutual,  Nan,  not  all 
on  one  side,"  objected  Evelyn,  wondering  that  all  the 
world  seemed  in  a  conspiracy  to  hurl  the  word  duty  at 
her.  "Why  should  the  wife  do  all  the  forbearance, 
while  the  man  makes  himself  as  odious  as  he  likes  ? ' ' 

"Well,  somebody  must  begin,  I  suppose.  Why  don't 
you  begin  the  forbearance?  You  have  the  most  time. 
Poor  old  Dick  comes  home  fagged  and  bothered  to  death, 
so  mightn't  some  allowance  be  made  for  him?  Very 
likely  he  hasn't  a  suspicion  of  the  crimes  with  which  he 
is  charged  and  reckons  himself  the  most  exemplary  of 
husbands. ' ' 

"Oh!  I  grant  you  that,"  she  retorted  with  a  savage 
sarcasm;  "you  may  safely  stake  all  you  have  on  that. 
He  thinks  that,  like  the  rest  of  the  furniture,  I  only  want 
a  little  dusting  and  putting  in  place  from  time  to  time ; 
I  'm  not  valuable  enough  to  be  run  away  with.  He 's  sure 
to  find  me  along  with  the  other  chairs  when  he  thinks 
proper  to  come  home — which  is  seldom." 

"Ah!  You'll  feel  better  after  that;  bring  it  all  out. 
But  I  must  fly,  if  the  Maynes  are  to  dine  at  seven.  Good 


NANCY'S   ADVICE  251 

night.  You  little  idiot,"  she  added,  turning  back  when 
she  reached  the  door  and  taking  Evelyn  by  the  shoulders 
to  give  her  an  affectionate  shake,  "you  don't  know  what 
a  lucky  woman  you  are.  Take  care  of  your  happiness. ' ' 

"Thank  you.  Wisdom  will  certainly  die  with  you, 
Nancy.  Only  you  haven't  been  married  and  you  don't 
know  what  misery  means. ' ' 

"I  know  that  it's  easy  to  play  the  fool  and  throw 
happiness  away.  So  good  night,  and  good  sense  to  you." 

"Stay,  Nancy,"  Evelyn  said,  keeping  her  back  with 
gentle  violence ;  ' '  only  tell  me  this  one  thing.  Were  you 
ever  engaged  to  Richard  ? ' ' 

"Engaged  to  Dick?    What  an  idea!    No." 

' '  Did  he  ever  ask  you  to  marry  him  ? ' '  Evelyn  urged, 
clinging  to  her  and  looking  with  a  wistful,  earnest  gaze 
into  her  face. 

' '  You  funny  child !  Certainly  not.  He  is  my  cousin. 
He  has  always  been  an  elder  brother  to  me.  What  next  ? " 

"Nothing.     Good  night." 

Much  comforted  and  relieved  by  all  she  had  heard 
from  Nancy,  she  went  to  her  room  and  dressed  with 
exceptional  care,  trying  this  and  laying  aside  that  with 
dissatisfaction,  and  at  last  finishing  the  whole  with  white 
and  pink  azaleas,  the  first  color  she  had  worn  since  the 
baby's  death,  with  the  words  "duty,"  "forbearance," 
"happiness,"  in  her  ears. 

Nancy 's  advice  was  always  good ;  even  her  uncle,  who 
was  contemptuous  of  female  minds,  had  respected  her 
counsels.  She  resolved  that  she  would  try  hard  to  think 
the  best  of  Richard  and  to  believe  in  his  love.  After  all, 
it  is  pleasant,  on  the  whole,  to  be  happy ;  no  one  particu- 
larly wishes  to  be  miserable,  even  at  twenty-one.  Besides, 
the  reflection  of  herself  she  saw  in  a  long  mirror  was  very 
cheering.  The  pink  of  the  azaleas  was  answered  in  her 
cheeks,  and  their  pure  whiteness  in  her  throat  and  arms ; 
her  black  lace  gown  threw  up  the  gold  tints  of  her  shi- 
ning brown  hair ;  she  was  taller  and  more  rounded  than 
at  the  time  of  her  marriage ;  there  was  deeper  luster  in  her 


252  RICHARD    ROSNY 

velvety  brown  eyes  and  more  certainty  in  her  carriage. 
Her  beauty  took  her  by  surprise;  it  was  the  first  time 
she  had  thought  of  it  or  cared  about  her  dress  since  the 
baby's  death. 

She  went  down-stairs  singing  and  played  with  the 
Persian  kitten  that  had  been  Gerald's  wedding  gift  and 
was  now  a  grave  and  majestic  cat,  pondering  the  mystery 
of  the  universe  with  an  inscrutable  gaze,  yet  sometimes 
condescending  to  human  weakness  by  stately  gambols  and 
decorous  mirth.  Poor  Fluff  had  a  heart  with  all  his  dig- 
nity, and  that  heart  had  been  nearly  broken  by  the  advent 
of  the  baby,  whose  death  had  scarcely  improved  matters 
for  him;  but  he,  too,  deemed  happiness  wiser  than  mis- 
ery, and  decided  to  make  the  best  of  this  life  and  his 
friends. 

The  hour  struck  at  last  when  the  master  might  be 
expected,  and  Fluff  listened  for  him  as  anxiously  as  his 
mistress,  for  he  had  personally  ascertained  what  the  bill 
of  fare  was  and  wished  to  express  his  approval  of  it  in  the 
most  practical  way. 

But  as  the  hands  of  the  clock  moved  on  and  no  step 
came,  Evelyn  sent  a  message  to  the  kitchen  to  keep  dinner 
back  till  the  next  train.  Fluff,  after  a  little  lion-like 
stalking  up  and  down,  settled  himself  resignedly  among 
his  mistress's  laces  and  purred  himself  to  sleep  again, 
while  Evelyn,  tired  out  by  her  passion,  succumbed  to  the 
warmth  and  quiet,  and  slept  as  fast  as  Fluff.  So  Rich- 
ard, coming  home  at  last,  found  them  when  he  dragged 
himself,  fagged  and  stupid,  into  the  silent  parlor. 

All  his  weariness  was  charmed  away  by  the  pretty 
homelike  picture ;  the  lines  went  out  of  his  face,  he  smiled 
gravely,  and  with  a  kiss  too  gentle  to  wake  her,  went  up- 
stairs. This  home-coming  was  worth  all  the  long  day's 
toil  and  moil  and  the  particularly  vexatious  occurrence 
that  detained  him  at  the  end.  He  had  intended  telling 
Evelyn  about  it,  but  the  beautiful  young  face  looked  so 
peaceful,  yet  so  tired  and  sad,  that  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  burden  her  with  his  care. 


NANCY'S   ADVICE  253 

"How  I  wish  you  would  dine  without  me  when  I 
am  late,"  he  said,  when  he  came  down  a  few  seconds 
later.  "Please  excuse  my  not  dressing  to  night;  I  was 
kept  at  the  last  moment  by  an  urgent  message  from  the 
Pines,  and  there  was  no  time  to  telegraph.  Any  one 
called  to-day  ? ' ' 

"Only  Mrs.  Mayne." 

His  face  brightened.  "Ah!  that  was  nice.  You'll 
find  her  a  great  resource.  Did  she  beguile  you  out  ?  "  he 
said. 

"No.  She  had  to  go  home  to  luncheon.  I  went  for 
a  walk  alone  toward  the  sea.  Came  home  to  tea  and 
found  Nancy.  She  has  a  holiday — term  holiday,  she 
said,  and  spends  the  night  with  the  Maynes. ' ' 

"Poor  little  Nance;  I  wish  she  hadn't  to  grind  so 
hard.  Why  in  the  world  doesn't  she  marry?  Though 
I  don 't  know  what  would  become  of  the  rest  if  she  did. 
Uncle  Adrian  fails  more  and  more.  He  frets  perpetu- 
ally at  having  been  the  cause  of  their  poverty." 

"You  and  Nancy  always  seem  to  have  been  good 
friends,  Richard." 

"Always.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  had  a  better 
friend  than  Nancy,  except  Musgrave. " 

"Did  you  know  Mrs.  Mayne  through  Ronald  Mus- 
grave?" Evelyn  asked. 

He  looked  up  surprised.  "Mrs.  Mayne?  Kitty 
Musgrave?  Why,  no;  they  are  only  cousins.  By  the 
way,  Evelyn " 

"By  what  way?"  she  wondered,  seeing  no  connec- 
tion. 

"Mother  and  Molly  are  coming  to  luncheon  to-mor- 
row. I  said  I  thought  you  had  no  engagement. ' ' 

"You  might  well  say  that,"  she  thought,  silently 
observing  that  he  had  been  very  quick  to  change  the 
conversation  from  Kathleen  Mayne.  Then  she  left  the 
room,  first  handing  him  his  pipe  and  tobacco  jar,  with  a 
small  kiss,  which  he  thankfully  but  silently  accepted. 

Soon  he  joined  her  in  the  parlor,  but  answered  her  at 
17 


254  RICHARD    ROSNY 

random  with  muttered  apologies  and  nodded  and  fell 
asleep  till  roused  by  tea.  Quickly  drinking  the  tea,  he 
attacked  a  pile  of  letters  and  papers  he  had  brought 
home  with  a  flying  pen  that  seemed  to  Evelyn  to  have 
been  going  on  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

"Hadn't  you  better  go  to  bed,  dear?"  he  said 
absently  without  laying  the  pen  aside,  when  the  clock 
struck  twelve;  "I  have  a  couple  of  hours'  work  still  and 
must  be  off  early  to-morrow,"  and  Evelyn,  wearied  by 
her  passionate  day  and  its  humdrum  close,  took  the  hint 
silently. 

"I  might  as  well  be  married  to  a  counting-house," 
she  reflected  as  she  conveyed  herself  and  her  candle  list- 
lessly up-stairs,  thinking  sadly  of  the  tiny  grave  in  the 
churchyard.  "He  doesn't  give  himself  time  to  be 
human. ' ' 

Rosny  was  distinctly  relieved  by  her  absence ;  it  was 
by  her  wish  that  he  picked  up  these  threads  of  business 
correspondence  in  her  room  rather  than  in  another ;  but 
her  unexpressed  boredom  and  evident  distaste  for  her 
own  occupations  disquieted  him  and  diverted  his  atten- 
tion from  his  work.  He  was  beginning  to  find  serious  con- 
versation with  Evelyn  daily  more  difficult  and  restricted ; 
they  had  reached  the  critical  point  in  married  life  when 
disappointments  are  accepted  without  surprise ;  he  knew 
well  that  she  would  not,  presumably  could  not,  enter  into 
any  but  his  immediate  domestic  interests,  or  sympathize 
with  the  aspirations  and  aims  of  his  wider  life;  but  it 
scarcely  grieved  him  now,  the  fact  had  been  so  long 
accepted. 

At  this  point  romance  dies,  the  poetry  of  life  evapo- 
rates, love  itself  often  takes  wing,  and  they  are  fortunate 
who  save  from  the  general  wreck  some  remnant  of  friend- 
liness, some  scrap  of  mutual  respect,  some  relic  of  the 
kindness  and  regard  arising  from  common  needs  and 
common  daily  interests. 

Yet  his  heart  bounded  with  happiness  when  he  came 
in  to  breakfast  next  morning  and  saw  Evelyn  sitting, 


NANCY'S   ADVICE  255 

fresh  as  a  rose  in  her  daily  increasing  beauty,  by  the 
hearth  he  loved. 

"Take  that  away,"  he  heard  her  say  to  the  waiting- 
maid  presently,  indicating  a  homely-looking  pot.  "I 
said  it  was  not  to  be  brought  in. ' ' 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,"  returned  the  maid,  "Mrs. 
Barton  would  be  hurt  if  it  wasn't  had  in  the  parlor.  It's 
best  virgin  honey  from  her  own  bees  and  she  thought 
you  would  fancy  it.  She  brought  it  herself  with  her 
duty." 

"Don't  send  it  away,  Evelyn,"  Richard  interposed; 
"I  should  like  some." 

"Really,  Richard,"  she  cried,  her  cheeks  flaming, 
when  the  maid  was  gone,  "you  put  me  in  a  very  awk- 
ward position.  You  make  it  plain  to  Rhoda  that  you 
sanction  her  impertinence.  I  may  not  put  what  I  choose 
on  my  own  table,  it  appears.  All  the  old  women  in  the 
place  come  to  this  house  with  their  bees  and  their  honey- 
pots." 

"Nonsense,  dear,"  he  returned  with  the  secure  ac- 
cent of  conjugal  indifference;  "the  woman  was  not 
impertinent.  You  don't  understand  our  rustic  ways. 
Seth  and  his  wife  would  have  been  terribly  hurt  if 
their  present  had  not  been  appreciated.  I  wouldn't 
have  a  slight  put  on  them  for  worlds.  Do  taste  the 
honey  yourself.  It  has  the  thyme  flavor  from  the 
downs. ' ' 

"You  should  have  married  one  of  your  delightful 
honey-making  rustics,"  she  cried.  "You  seem  to  care 
for  nobody  else." 

"Not  even  Fluff?"  he  asked,  handing  that  urbanely 
blinking  favorite  a  scrap  of  cold  fowl.  "Yet  Fluff's  an 
aristocrat  of  long  descent — eh,  Fluff  ?  Take  it  or  leave  it, 
old  boy.  I  can't  fool  about  all  day  with  you.  There, 
there!" 

She  tried  to  keep  back  her  tears  and  raised  her  cup  to 
her  lips  to  hide  their  quivering.  Richard  always  had 
time  to  humor  and  caress  Fluff,  whose  dallying  airs  and 


256  RICHARD   ROSNY 

insolent  delays  were  most  exasperating,  she  thought;  it 
was  impossible  that  he  could  care  for  her  or  he  would 
surely  be  more  tender  and  considerate. 

Yet  he  observed  the  tears,  but,  setting  them  down  to 
the  baby's  death,  purposely  ignored  them.  So  he  talked 
of  trifles  to  distract  her  thoughts,  and  continued  his 
breakfast  with  the  steady  and  amazing  appetite  so  exas- 
perating to  irritated  wives  who  are  unable  to  realize  that 
food  is  as  necessary  to  the  male  organism  in  trouble  as 
in  joy. 

' '  Try  this  bacon  before  it 's  cold,  Evie.  Thanks ;  some 
more  coffee;  it's  very  well  made  this  morning."  He 
could  talk  in  that  way  while  her  heart  was  breaking,  and 
he  had  made  no  attempt  at  apology. 

"Richard,"  she  asked  suddenly,  after  a  long  silence, 
"why  did  you  never  tell  me  that  you  had  been  engaged  to 
Mrs.  Mayne?" 

He  dropped  a  knife,  crimsoned,  and  looked  up 
sharply,  with  a  flame  in  his  eyes  that  frightened  her. 

"Did  I  never  tell  you?"  he  said  after  a  pause,  dur- 
ing which  he  compelled  himself  to  speak  gently.  "I 
think  you  are  mistaken.  Don't  you  remember  what  I 
told  you  that  day  in  the  boat — the  day  I  brought  the 
ring?" 

"I  remember  something  about  your  having  been 
attached  to  some  other  girl  long  before ;  I  heard  no  name. 
And  when  the  Maynes  were  coming  here  and  so  much 
discussed  you  never  once  alluded  to  her  having  been 
engaged  to  you." 

' '  Didn  't  I  mention  the  name  ?  Well,  I  was  not  aware 
of  it ;  but  what  does  it  matter  ?  Everybody  knew,  every- 
body knows." 

"Everybody  but  your  wife,"  she  broke  in,  almost 
crying. 

' '  My  dear  child,  I  never  tried  to  conceal  it, ' '  he  said, 
trying  to  subdue  the  impatience  he  felt  and  heard  in  his 
voice.  "I  told  all  my  life  that  day — up  to  the  Sunday 
afternoon  when  I  first  saw  you  asleep  in  the  boat.  What 


NANCY'S   ADVICE  257 

a  memory,  Evelyn!  Yet  once  you  told  me  that — when 
you  woke  and  saw  me  sitting  there  watching  you — 
Well,  /  remember  if  you  don't.  Evelyn,  you  must 
remember  how  I  was  drawn  to  you  on  that  first  day,  when 
you  were  sleeping  and  unconscious,  by  a  likeness  to  the 
only  woman  I  had  ever  cared  for — oh!  you  can't  forget 
that,  surely — I  told  you  how  deeply  I  was  attached  to  her, 
and  why  she  gave  me  up,  and  how  I  never  thought  to 
take  any  pleasure  in  my  life  again,  or  to  care  about  any- 
body or  anything  after  I  lost  her.  Have  you  forgotten 
that?"  he  asked,  his  voice  more  and  more  moved  as  he 
spoke. 

"I  had  forgotten  that  other  woman;  it  was  so  long 
ago.  But  I  know  that  you  never  named  her,  it  comes 
back  to  me  now.  Ah!  you  cared  very  much  for  her, 
Richard?" 

"Cared?"  he  echoed;  "oh!  cared!  I  was  not  a  boy, 
Evelyn,  to  fall  in  love  and  out  again  with  every  pretty 
face,  young  as  it  was,  but  a  man  fully  grown.  She  was 
the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me  all  those  years. 
Cared  ?  Why,  she  was  my  religion.  Oh !  I  was  a  pretty 
pagan  before  she  lifted  me  out  of  the  mire.  Every  bet- 
ter thought,  every  purer  wish,  I  owe  to  her.  She  was 
right  to  leave  me,  quite  right.  I  was  utterly  unworthy 
of  her.  Losing  her  was  a  bitter,  bitter  blow.  What  I 
should  have  been  but  for  knowing  and  loving  her,  I  dare 
not  think.  Yes,  the  world  was  dark  for  me  then, 
indeed. ' ' 

Evelyn  locked  her  hands  tightly  together  under  the 
table  and  turned  cold  and  white.  She  looked  straight 
across  at  his  moved  face  and  took  in  the  deep  and  ear- 
nest feeling  in  his  voice;  then  her  eyes  grew  hard  and 
bright,  her  lips  tightened  and  she  was  silent. 

"And  when  I  woke  that  day  in  the  boat  and  looked 
in  your  face,"  she  said  presently,  in  a  curiously  still 
voice,  "'you  were  thinking  of  her?" 

"Yes,  I  was  thinking  of  her  as  I  knew  her  at  your 
age,  and  wondering  how  far  the  likeness  between  you 


258  RICHARD    ROSNY 

went.  How  little  she  imagines  that  it  was  she  who 
brought  us  together " 

"And  parted  us?"  Evelyn  mentally  added. 

' '  By  George,  is  it  striking  the  half-hour  1  I  shall  lose 
my  train.  Good-by,  Evelyn." 

"Good-by,  Richard." 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

THE   MYSTERIOUS   SIREN 

ROSNY  rushed  to  his  train  in  a  miserably  uncomfort- 
able frame  of  mind,  out  of  temper  with  Evelyn  and  with 
the  whole  world,  and  especially  out  of  temper  with 
himself.  He  felt  that  he  was  falling  into  that  wretched 
condition  of  fretted  and  overwearied  nerves  in  which  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  conceal  irritation  and  bear  with 
querulous  and  unreasonable  conduct.  It  was  contempti- 
ble to  show  irritation  with  Evelyn,  to  be  unable  to  bear 
with  her ;  he  ought  to  soothe  and  reassure  her,  and  laugh 
her  into  happier  spirits.  No  doubt  all  her  perversity  and 
hysterical  gloom  was  due  to  what  he  most  ardently  wished 
for.  He  was  an  absolute  brute  to  be  annoyed  by  the  poor 
child's  weakness.  Still,  he  could  not  have  a  slight  put 
upon  the  Bartons,  nor  could  he  allow  her  to  make  false 
and  absurd  accusations  of  himself.  Only  he  wished  he 
might  have  been  gentler  and  pleasanter  in  meeting  these 
contrarieties.  Perhaps  he  ought  not  to  have  married.  If 
only  the  baby  had  lived,  it  would  have  been  so  much 
easier ;  the  next  would  make  everything  right  again. 

Evelyn  heard  his  departing  steps,  as  he  tore  down 
the  road,  with  a  curious  feeling  that  was  almost  relief  in 
its  certainty.  Those  hastening  steps  seemed  to  be  going 
out  of  her  life  never  to  return;  the  good-by  exchanged 
between  them  meant  good-by  to  almost  everything;  a 
chapter  in  her  life  was  closed;  the  next  would  scarcely 
contain  the  name  of  Richard. 

Nancy  had  been  entirely  wrong  in  her  advice ;  Nancy 
was  not  acquainted  with  the  bare  and  bitter  facts  on 
which  her  misery  was  based.  Richard  had,  indeed,  a 

259 


260  RICHARD    ROSNY 

heart,  but  not  for  her ;  he  had  loved  with  deep  and  vehe- 
ment passion,  not  yet  extinct,  but  not  her.  The  sacred 
fire  she  had  surprised  in  his  eyes  on  waking  that  after- 
noon in  the  boat  was  by  his  own  admission  not  for  her, 
but  for  Kathleen,  the  cold  and  correct  woman  who  had 
broken  faith  with  him  in  his  youth  and  who  had  broken 
his  heart  but  not  his  constancy  by  her  desertion.  It  was 
the  old  story  of  Iseult  of  the  white  hand,  the  young,  un- 
loved wife,  chosen  because  her  name  recalled  the  elder, 
the  lost  Iseult  of  Tristram's  youth.  Iseult  of  Brittany 
was  loving  and  very  lovely,  and  the  mother  of  his  chil- 
dren, but  never  won  his  heart ;  that  remained  forever  with 
Iseult  of  Ireland,  to  whom  he  was  at  last  united  in  death. 
Evelyn  could  not  play  the  part  of  the  younger  Iseult ;  her 
heart  hardened  to  steel  against  the  man  who  had  loved 
and  never  forgotten  Kathleen,  and  had  chosen  herself  for 
some  imaginary  resemblance  between  them. 

After  luncheon  that  day,  when  Molly  and  Gwen 
were  at  the  piano  and  Mrs.  Belton  and  herself  had  drawn 
their  chairs  close  to  the  fire,  she  asked  Edith  if  she  had 
liked  Richard 's  engagement  to  Kathleen.  ' '  Mrs.  Mayne 
must  have  been  a  charming  girl, ' '  she  supposed. 

"I  can  not  say  that  I  was  enchanted  with  her,"  was 
the  reply;  "Richard  was  young  to  think  of  marrying; 
the  engagement  was  a  painful  surprise  and  shock  to  us 
all ;  he  was  far  too  young  to  settle  down  to  the  responsi- 
bilities and  humdrum  duties  of  marriage.  Still,  Kitty 
was  a  very  lovely  girl.  Of  course,  my  dear  boy 's  happi- 
ness was  my  first  consideration ;  so  I  made  the  best  of  it 
and  was  deeply  grieved  when  she  broke  it  off.  Her 
people  took  her  away;  I  never  saw  her  again  till  just 
recently.  She  was  probably  playing  with  him  all  the 
time,  but  she  seemed  so  nice  and  so  devoted.  I  can  not 
understand  how  such  a  girl  could  behave  so  badly.  It 
was  so  palpably  because  of  his  misfortunes.  She  gave 
him  up  immediately  after  my  dear  husband's  death,  when 
Richard  left  the  service  and  devoted  himself  to  the  sup- 
port of  his  brothers  and  sisters.  So  cruel  to  desert  him 


THE   MYSTERIOUS    SIREN       261 

just  then.  Yet  Richard  would  never  hear  a  word  against 
her — so  loyal,  so  devoted,  and  so  heart-broken." 

"He  must  have  been  very  deeply  in  love,"  Evelyn 
suggested. 

' '  He  was,  indeed ;  it  was  quite  an  infatuation.  Rich- 
ard is  a  strong  man  and  bore  the  pain.  But  it  entirely 
changed  him;  it  crushed  all  the  youth  and  brightness 
out  of  him.  If  you  had  known  my  frank  and  light- 
hearted  sailor  boy,  Evelyn,  you  would  wonder  what  con- 
nection he  could  possibly  have  with  this  stern,  still, 
emotionless  business  man.  Poor,  dear  Richard,  his  has 
been  a  sadly  marred  life.  And  though  he  is  so  happy 
now,  it  can  never  be  the  same ;  that  first  brightness  can 
never  be  regained.  Kathleen  Mayne  has  much  to  answer 
for.  How  do  you  like  her,  my  dear?  One  scarcely 
expects  you  to  adore  her. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  like  her  well  enough,  mama.  Just  the  sort 
of  well-meaning  frump  one  expects  in  a  clergywoman. 
Difficult  to  realize  that  Richard  could  ever  have  been 
seriously  in  love  with  such  a  person.  Yet  she  has  not 
been  married  long — a  few  months  longer  than  we.  And 
Mr.  Mayne  is  about  Richard 's  age. ' ' 

Mrs.  Belton  smiled;  she  recognized  a  proper  wifely 
acidity  in  this  description  of  a  husband's  former  fiancee. 
"We  can  afford  to  forgive  her,"  she  said  graciously; 
"Richard  most  of  all." 

Richard  was  surprised  and  pleased  on  his  return  that 
evening  to  find  an  even-tempered,  placid  wife,  quite 
oblivious  of  the  morning's  passage  of  arms,  and  content 
to  occupy  herself  with  books  and  papers  while  her  lord 
dozed  or  finished  off  odds  and  ends  of  work. 

Later  on  in  the  year  he  began  to  hope  that  they  were 
entering  upon  a  newer  and  better  phase  of  married  life. 
Evelyn's  pettishness  and  sharp  retorts  were  gone;  she 
was  compliant  and  reasonable,  never  reproachful,  taking 
all  he  said  and  did,  or  left  unsaid  and  undone,  with 
equanimity  and  without  comment,  as — so  he  flattered 
himself — it  was  meant.  She  had  at  last  learned  to  trust 


262  RICHARD   ROSNY 

him  and  to  know  that  he  could  mean  nothing  but  the  best 
for  her,  whatever  he  did.  This  state  of  things  was  very 
restful ;  he  was  very  thankful  for  it ;  there  is  no  peace  on 
earth  like  the  peace  of  one's  own  fireside. 

And  if  any  man  needed  the  peace  of  home  during 
that  summer  it  was  Richard,  on  whom  cares  and  harass- 
ments  seemed  to  accumulate  at  compound  interest  as  the 
days  went  on,  and  who  found  it  more  and  more  difficult 
to  come  home  at  any  reasonable  hour,  or  do  anything  but 
take  food  and  rest  in  his  own  house. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  married,"  he  said  one  lovely 
summer  night,  waking  from  an  after-dinner  doze  in  the 
parlor. 

Evelyn  was  in  the  window-seat  by  the  open  lattice,  her 
face  outlined  against  the  soft  green  summer  dusk  without 
and  illuminated  by  lamplight  from  within.  Her  head 
was  slightly  thrown  back  and  her  face  upturned  to  the 
starry  sky,  so  as  to  show  the  beautiful  columnar  throat 
and  fine  curves  of  the  bust ;  her  hands  were  clasped  list- 
lessly in  her  lap  ;  her  face  was  wistful  and  full  of  dream ; 
her  whole  figure  and  posture,  the  very  roses  fading  and 
falling  from  her  dress,  expressed  the  restrained  longing 
and  sadness  of  some  wild,  imprisoned  creature.  It 
seemed  to  her  husband  that  some  great  change  was  going 
on  in  her  and  developing  her  beauty.  The  girl  asleep  in 
the  boat  had  promised  no  such  beauty  and  character  as 
was  in  this  face.  His  heart  smote  him,  he  knew  not  why, 
beyond  a  vague  general  notion  that  he  had  no  right  to 
tame  and  cage  so  bright  a  creature  as  this  in  that  secluded 
cottage.  "I  ought  not  to  have  married,"  he  repeated. 
"I  am  too  busy,  I  have  no  time." 

Evelyn  smiled  faintly,  and  shaking  off  the  dreams  in 
which  she  seemed  wrapped,  rose  and  resumed  the  piece  of 
work  she  had  laid  aside,  with  some  cheerfully  trivial 
remark. 

'  *  I  wish  you  could  see  more  of  the  Maynes, ' '  he  added. 
' '  The  atmosphere  of  that  house  is  what  you  need.  And 
they  are  such  near  and  pleasant  neighbors. ' ' 


THE   MYSTERIOUS    SIREN       263 

"I  am  learning  the  violin,"  was  the  inconsequent 
reply;  "it  is  not  so  difficult  as  I  thought.  Molly  gives 
me  wrinkles." 

"Next  year  I  hope  to  be  less  rushed,"  he  continued, 
"and  then " 

He  left  the  sentence  unfinished  in  the  longing  that 
came  upon  him  to  disburden  himself  of  some  of  those 
accumulated  anxieties  and  worries  and  talk  them  over 
with  her;  but  memory  supplied  him  with  many  former 
repulses  and  baffled  attempts  to  enlist  her  interest  in 
things  that  concerned  him,  and  he  refrained. 

"Is  the  meadow  to  be  mown  to-morrow?"  Evelyn 
asked,  and  he  looked  at  her  in  a  dumb  despair  that 
matched  her  own  unexpressed  desperation. 

"But  the  baby  will  come  and  all  be  well,"  he  thought, 
and  then  suggested  some  pleasure  excursion,  which  she 
declined. 

The  next  evening  he  came  home  in  good  time  for  din- 
ner. Evelyn  was  loitering  in  the  rose-garden,  listlessly 
crooning  some  old  ballad,  and  listening  for  the  well- 
known  click  of  the  gate,  when  to  her  surprise  she  heard 
a  double  footstep  on  the  gravel,  and,  parting  the  green 
boughs  that  concealed  her  from  the  approach  to  the 
house,  saw  two  men  enter  the  cottage.  This  brought  her 
slowly  round  to  the  front  entrance,  listlessly  curious  as  to 
the  rare  guest  her  husband  was  bringing  home.  Too 
tall  for  Gerald,  not  slight  enough  for  Archie — could  it 
be  Uncle  Adrian?  But  no;  the  step  was  too  firm  and 
certain  for  an  old  man;  might  it  be  Herbert  Mayne? 
Any  one  was  welcome,  any  one  to  break  the  monotony, 
even  the  coast-guard  officer ;  but  he  would  scarcely  come 
without  his  wife. 

Youth  was  stirring  her  pulses  and  setting  them  in 
tune  with  the  sumptuous  summer  evening,  when,  with  a 
gracefully  languid  step,  she  appeared  in  the  parlor  in  a 
flood  of  yellow  evening  sunshine,  roses  in  her  white, 
black-ribboned  gown,  roses  in  her  cheeks,  roses  filling  her 
hands  and  falling  in  showers  to  the  window-seat,  when  she 


264  RICHARD    ROSNY 

let  them  go  to  give  a  hand  to  the  stranger  her  husband 
was  presenting,  as  "my  old  messmate,  Ronald  Mus- 
grave,"  the  latter  meeting  her  mildly  interested  glance 
with  a  full,  direct,  and  searching  look,  in  which  was  a 
flash  that  startled  and  interested  her. 

' '  Captain  Musgrave  at  last, ' '  she  said  in  a  voice  that 
struck  Eichard  as  having  developed  many  more  tones  of 
late,  and  with  a  smile  that  was  gracious  but  restrained  as 
a  queen's.  "So  long  predicted,"  she  added,  slowly  giv- 
ing the  hand  he  seemed  to  have  waited  so  long  to  receive, 
and  withdrawing  it  with  scarcely  a  touch. 

' '  At  last ! "  he  echoed,  the  flash  coming  and  going 
again  in  his  full,  dark  eyes.  "Fate  has  hitherto  been 
against  me,  Mrs.  Eosny,  from  the  moment  I  missed  the 
wedding.  I  was  appointed  to  a  ship  a  week  before,  or 
rather  disappointed.  It  was  nearly  two  years  ago." 

"So  long?"  Rosny  asked.    "It  seems  no  time." 

"How  should  it,  Dick,  under  the  circumstances?  I 
congratulate  you  at  this  late  moment  with  all  my  heart, 
because  at  last  I  am  in  a  position  to  do  so.  Congratula- 
tion on  the  unseen  is  a  farce. ' ' 

Evelyn 's  color  rose  and  her  eyes  fell  before  the  subtle 
homage  in  the  man's  voice. 

"  Oh !  it 's  far  too  late  for  congratulations.  Congratu- 
lations ought  to  end  with  presents,"  she  said,  not  real- 
izing how  her  words  might  be  interpreted,  sinking  upon 
the  window-seat  by  her  roses,  which  she  began  to  arrange, 
while  looking  absently  into  the  garden. 

' '  In  ordinary  cases,  no  doubt, ' '  he  assented  in  a  way 
that  implied  something  beyond  the  common  in  this. 

Then  Rosny  went  to  dress,  and  Musgrave  helped  her 
to  arrange  the  roses,  for  which  bowls  seemed  ready  in 
various  corners  of  the  room. 

On  his  return,  after  a  hurried  toilet,  Richard  found 
them  still  among  the  roses  in  the  yellow  evening  glory. 
The  tall,  brown,  strikingly  handsome  sailor,  with  a  dusky 
crimson  Camille  de  Rolian  unfurling  its  velvet  petals  in 
his  coat,  and  a  contented  look  upon  his  face;  Evelyn, 


THE   MYSTERIOUS   SIREN       265 

rosy  and  animated,  her  white  gown,  the  single  string  of 
pearls  on  her  round,  white  throat,  her  white  arms  and 
the  trail  of  pure  white  Niphetos  roses  set  with  one  red 
Camille  de  Rohan  in  her  corsage,  all  this  whiteness  glow- 
ing in  the  sun's  rays  as  if  made  of  palest  amber  fire. 
The  picture  gladdened  him  in  its  setting  of  the  dear  old 
homely  parlor ;  it  was  a  happy  man  who  sat  and  listened 
to  their  trivial  conversation  and  watched  the  sunbeams 
playing  in  Evelyn's  rippling  hair  and  wondered  at  her 
beauty. 

"So  the  fair  Kitty  has  finally  struck  her  colors?" 
Musgrave  said  at  dinner.  "What  a  dance  she  led  us 
all!" 

"  All  ?"Rosny  asked. 

"Well,  all  present.  When  you  were  bowled  out,  I 
went  in  and  batted  for  all  I  was  worth.  No  go.  She 
wouldn't  look  at  me.  Said  we  were  cousins.  Which  we 
undoubtedly  were,  and  are  still,  for  all  I  know.  Does 
marriage  dissolve  cousinship,  Mrs.  Rosny?" 

' '  It  depends.  I  seem  to  have  lost  all  mine.  Do  you 
find  Mrs.  Mayne  much  altered,  Captain  Musgrave  ? ' '  she 
added,  with  some  eagerness. 

"Finding  her  haltered — in  the  matrimonial  noose — 
one  must  find  alterations  for  one 's  own  peace.  So  I  hope 
it  isn't  very  ungallant  to  wonder  what  has  become  of  all 
the  endearing  young  charms  since  the  splicing.  What 
sort  of  a  chap  is  Mayne?  I'm  dining  there  to-mor- 
row. ' ' 

"I  think  you  will  like  Mr.  Mayne,"  Evelyn  said; 
"he's  very  nice — for  a  clergyman." 

" For  a  clergyman?  I  thought  all  ladies  worshiped 
the  cloth." 

"Ah!  but  I'm  not  'all  ladies,'  "  was  the  quick  retort. 

"I  bow  to  the  exception — and  keep  my  rule  intact. 
I  hope  bluejackets  are  more  favored  in  this  quarter.  But 
the  inference  is  obvious.  Well,  Dick,  it's  to  be  hoped 
nothing  will  ever  wash  the  salt  out  of  you ;  I  think  noth- 
ing will." 


266  RICHARD    ROSNY 

"And  then  my  uncle  is  a  sailor,"  Evelyn  said. 
"You  sailed  with  my  Uncle  William,  Captain  Arbury, 
once,  Captain  Musgrave,  I  am  told." 

Yes ;  he  remembered  that  very  well.  He  had  recently 
met  Captain  Arbury  abroad.  Yet  he  found  little  real 
enthusiasm  for  sailormen  in  Captain  Arbury 's  niece. 
And  why  that  droop  in  the  pretty  red  mouth,  and  the 
unnatural  fatigue  in  eyes  that  were  at  moments  so 
bright?  He  thought  of  a  scene  enacted  only  yesterday. 

He  had  been  climbing  up  the  cliff-path  from  the  sea 
with  a  photographic  apparatus,  and  he  was  just  setting 
his  camera  on  a  natural  terrace  in  the  boldly  broken 
gorge,  where  the  cliff  lines  parted,  when  he  became  aware, 
by  the  unnamed  sense  that  conveys  such  things  to  the 
brain,  that  he  was  not  alone,  though  no  one  was  to  be 
seen  when  he  looked  around. 

A  lark  sprang  up  from  the  grassy  summit  with  a 
broken  song ;  some  linnets  fluttered  chirping  from  bushes 
strewn  about  the  broken  ledges;  rabbits  scattered  into 
cover;  the  near  bushes  rustled  with  another  sound,  the 
touch  of  a  woman's  dress;  and,  stepping  back  and  peep- 
ing Actaeon-like  through  a  parting  in  the  screen  of  stunt- 
ed oak,  he  caught  sight  of  a  figure  pacing  to  and  fro, 
looking  out  to  sea  and  speaking  in  a  low,  cadenced  voice, 
with  waving  arms  and  rhythmic  gestures.  The  face  was 
hidden,  but  the  figure  and  the  movements  were  charm- 
ing; the  sunlight  glowed  through  gold-edged  hair. 

"A  woman  who  can  walk — "  a  rare  thing  he  thought 
— "most  of  them  wabble,  pound,  or  jerk — a  woman  who 
can  move,  whose  movements  express  feeling  and  thought, 
whose  body  is  an  instrument  of  the  soul  and  not  its  mere 
clogging  shell — still  rarer."  Then  he  caught  the  side- 
face  and  found  it  exquisite,  now  the  intermittent  words 
she  seemed  to  be  speaking  to  the  sea;  she  was  reciting 
poetry;  odd  to  find  people  reciting  poetry  at  Wimbury. 

Then  the  voice  rose  clear  and  vibrating  on  a  wave 
of  feeling — ah !  more  than  feeling ;  that  was  the  unmista- 
kable note  of  passion — the  whole  of  the  longing  and  pain 


THE   MYSTERIOUS   SIREN       267 

of  an  imprisoned  and  suffering  soul  seemed  to  be  poured 
out  in  the  words,  so  familiar,  yet  with  such  new  meaning : 

Oh,  let  the  solid  ground 

Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 
Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 

Not  close  and  darken  above  me, 
Before  I  am  quite,  quite  sure 

That  there  is  one  to  love  me. 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad — 
Then  let  come  what  come  may ; 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

Reckless  abandonment  was  in  the  last  four  lines,  in 
sharp  contrast  with  the  pleading  and  passion  that  went 
before ;  a  defiant  laugh,  almost  sob,  broke  through  the  last 
of  all.  She  paused,  then  suddenly  repeated,  in  a  voice 
of  infinite  pathos, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day — 

Then  silence,  with  folded  hands,  and  in  the  listener's 
eyes  a  stinging  heat  and  in  his  throat  a  hot  pain.  The 
leafy  screen  fell  into  its  place;  Actaeon  stepped  back, 
ashamed,  noiselessly  gathered  up  his  apparatus,  and 
noiselessly  slipped  away  and  up  the  gorge  to  focus  his 
view  from  a  higher  point. 

How  the  voice  rang  on  in  his  mind,  with  meaning  far 
beyond  the  words!  Strange  power  in  human  voices  to 
express  things  beyond  thought,  or  verbal  expression, 
power  given  to  few — except  on  rare  occasions  and  in 
acute  crises  of  feeling.  Only  actors  and  orators  can  so 
touch  hearts,  and  only  the  best  of  these. 

"So  you  have  an  actress  at  Wimbury?"  he  said  at 
the  vicarage  an  hour  later.  "I  thought  nobody  ever 
came  here.  I've  always  heard  you  were  free  from 
visitors  and  harbored  none  but  aborigines  in  the  place." 


268  RICHARD    ROSNY 

But  Kathleen  disclaimed  the  actress  and  pronounced 
the  place  free  of  lodgings  and  hotels  for  miles  round. 
"If  anybody  were  staying  at  the  Eight  Bells  we  should 
know  it,"  she  added.  "JPerhaps  it  was  somebody  from 
the  Retreat." 

"There's  nobody  staying  at  the  Retreat  but  myself. 
It  must  have  been  a  mermaid.  If  they  sing,  why 
shouldn't  they  recite  poetry?  The  destruction  of  man- 
kind could  as  easily  be  accomplished  by  recitations  like 
that  I  heard  on  the  cliff  as  by  song.  Who  knows  but  the 
siren's  singing  was  chanted  hexameters  and  pentam- 
eters?" 

' '  Very  likely  it  was.  Herbert  says  that  Greek  poetry 
was  always  chanted,  and  that  our  Gregorian  plain-song 
is  but  the  ancient  poetic  recitative. ' ' 

"That  settles  the  matter,  Kitty.  Gregorians  would 
turn  the  handsomest  and  most  fascinating  sirens  imagi- 
nable into  mere  harmless  bores.  Ulysses  would  have 
called  out  for  wax  to  put  in  his  ears,  instead  of  asking  to 
be  unlashed  from  the  mast  the  moment  he  heard  the  first 
growl  of  a  Gregorian. ' ' 

Rosny,  on  being  interrogated,  had  also  disclaimed  all 
knowledge  of  anybody  within  reach  of  Wimbury  capable 
of  reciting  poetry  except  Mayne.  Mayne  recites  well," 
he  added. 

' '  It  certainly  was  not  Mayne, ' '  Musgrave  said,  when 
they  turned  in  at  the  cottage  gate.  ' '  He  could  never  be 
mistaken  for  a  siren." 

Oh,  let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet — 

was  still  echoing  in  the  sweet  and  passionate  voice  through 
Ronald 's  brain  when  they  were  sitting  in  the  cool  parlor, 
and  the  door  silently  opened  and  the  mysterious  reciter 
herself  appeared  in  the  sunshine,  white-clad,  clear-eyed, 
her  hands  full  of  roses.  So  the  mystery  was  solved  to 
lose  itself  in  a  mystery  still  deeper. 

The  heart-hunger  of  the  voice  was  clear  to  read  in 


THE   MYSTERIOUS   SIREN       269 

the  wild  eyes,  and  yet  this  was  Dick  Rosny 's  young 
wife,  as  beautiful  as  the  day  and  possessing  infinitely 
more  distinction  both  in  look  and  manner  than  he  had 
been  led  to  expect. 

"A  very  pretty  and  charming  girl,"  his  cousin  had 
described  her,  "but  very  quiet  and  reserved,  and  quite 
given  over  to  grief  for  the  baby  she  lost  nearly  a  year 
ago.  Most  unsociable,  caring  for  nothing  outside  her 
own  four  walls." 

"I  hope  you  will  get  on  with  my  wife,"  Rosny  had 
said  to  Ronald.  ' '  She 's  a  little  shy,  very  domesticated. 
She  never  cared  for  pleasure  or  society,  very  different 
from  most  girls.  Evelyn -'s  tastes  are  womanly  and  quiet ; 
she  is  a  good  housekeeper,  fond  of  simple  things ;  flowers, 
music,  and  country  walks  are  her  amusements." 

"Quite  a  model  of  all  a  woman  should  be.  You're 
a  lucky  chap  to  have  found  such  a  paragon,  Dick. ' ' 

"Yes,"  with  a  sigh.  "The  only  trouble  is  that  our 
life  is  too  quiet  for  a  girl — for  she  is  but  a  girl.  One 
could  almost  wish  for  a  little  discontent,  a  little  revolt 
against  the  monotony.  She  can't  get  over  the  poor 
baby's  death.  That's  natural,  I  suppose.  Women  feel 
those  things.  She  wants  young  society.  Yet  she  appears 
not  to  care  to  have  the  girls  with  her.  And  they  find  it 
dull  here." 

With  that  voice  and  face,  that  carriage  and  figure, 
not  to  care  for  society  or  pleasure  or  anything  beyond 
the  four  walls  of  home!  There  must  be  a  screw  loose 
somewhere,  Ronald  thought. 

"Yes,  you  are  a  lucky  chap,"  he  corroborated,  when 
Evelyn's  white  skirts  had  fluttered  out  of  the  dining- 
parlor  and  the  two  friends  drew  their  chairs  together; 
' '  I  don 't  know  when  I  've  met  anybody  so  utterly  charm- 
ing as  Mrs.  Rosny.  Even  her  sadness  becomes  her.  Very 
few  women  can  be  sad  without  losing  charm.  Grief 
plays  the  deuce  with  the  complexion ;  it  ruins  manner  and 
makes  most  women  dowdy.  They  take  no  interest  in  their 
frocks  when  they  are  not  happy." 
18 


270  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"But  Evelyn  never  cared  for  dress." 

"Then  dress  cares  for  her.  Bless  your  heart,  Dick, 
it 's  the  way  they  put  their  clothes  on  and  the  instinctive 
knowledge  of  what  suits  them  and  is  suitable.  Some 
women  wear  clothes ;  some  are  dressed  by  maids  and  tail- 
ors, and  some  dress  by  the  light  of  genius. ' ' 

Rosny  smiled  with  full  content.  "She  seems  to  like 
you,"  he  said;  "and  she's  not  easy  to  please." 

They  smoked  in  the  garden.  There  they  discussed  the 
business  on  which  Ronald  had  consulted  his  old  mess- 
mate, who  had  asked  him  to  come  and  dine  and  talk  it 
over.  Up  and  down  the  gravel  they  paced  beneath  the 
pale  summer  stars,  both  showing  a  trace  of  the  sailor  in 
their  leisurely  walk,  passing  and  repassing  the  parlor 
window,  through  which  Musgrave  never  failed  to  look, 
with  a  pang  of  intense  pity  for  the  solitary  white  figure 
faintly  seen  within  by  the  light  of  a  shaded  lamp  that  left 
the  room  in  twilight  barred  with  thick  shadows. 

Presently  Evelyn  rose  from  the  shadows  and  sat  in 
the  window-seat.  Then  Ronald  stopped  when  they  came 
up,  and  leaned  on  the  sill  to  talk,  and  Evelyn  remem- 
bered that  it  had  been  Richard 's  habit  to  do  the  same  last 
summer;  but  Richard  only  remembered  that  Ronald's 
business  was  but  half  discussed  and  tore  at  his  beard  with 
hardly  suppressed  impatience.  Presently  they  went  in, 
and,  to  his  pleased  surprise,  Evelyn  consented  to  sing  and 
accompanied  songs  for  Ronald. 

"  No ;  not  that, ' '  she  said,  pushing  Kathleen  Mavour- 
neen  from  the  desk ;  ' '  sing  another,  I  hate  the  thing. ' ' 

"Why,  it  used  to  be  Dick's  favorite,"  he  said,  sub- 
stituting another,  and  looking  round  to  see  Rosny  fast 
asleep  in  his  chair. 

"He  almost  always  falls  asleep  after  dinner,"  Eve- 
lyn apologized;  "he  is  often  late  and  always  so  tired. 
He  was  up  at  four  this  morning  and  to-morrow  it  may  be 
the  same." 

' '  What  mischief  can  a  man  possibly  find  to  do  at  that 
unholy  hour  ? ' ' 


THE   MYSTERIOUS    SIREN       271 

"It  was  something  philanthropic,  I  think.  A  coope- 
rative farm  or  factory." 

' '  Poor  old  chap  !  You  don 't  train  him  up  in  the  way 
he  should  go,  Mrs.  Rosny.  Have  hysterics  next  time  he 
tries  those  games  on." 

' '  Ah ! ' '  she  said  with  an  odd  little  smile  that  went  to 
his  heart,  as  she  struck  some  chords,  and  "I  arise  from 
dreams  of  thee"  rang  through  the  parlor  in  Eonald's 
fine  voice  without  awakening  Richard. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE   EETEEAT 

THE  Retreat  was  a  long  and  irregular  but  comfort- 
able stone  house,  built  in  a  slight  depression  half-way  up 
the  bleak  hill  that  ran  out  to  sea  and  sank  in  steeply 
broken  gorges  down  to  a  rock-beset  point,  on  which  a 
lighthouse  gave  warning  of  hidden  reefs  where  great 
breakers  fretted  and  flung  themselves  in  perpetual  thun- 
der and  foam.  A  slight  southward  trend  and  the  shelter 
of  some  skilfully  ordered  plantations  made  the  grounds 
immediately  surrounding  the  house  a  paradise  of  varied 
bloom  and  foliage,  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  wind-shorn, 
treeless  slopes  surrounding  it ;  while  the  air  was  so  pure 
and  the  prospects  so  far  and  fine,  that  it  was  in  truth 
what  its  builder  designed  it  to  be — a  retreat  of  pleasure 
and  peace,  rather  than  a  place  of  penance  and  mortifica- 
tion, as  public  opinion  rashly  assumed.  For  the  Chesney 
who  built  it  in  the  eighteenth  century  was  an  eccentric, 
lonely  man,  whose  youth  and  prime  had  been  passed 
abroad,  no  one  quite  knew  how  or  where,  and  who  had 
spent  a  solitary  old  age  in  it,  wifeless  and  childless, 
among  spoils  and  curios  picked  up  all  over  the  world. 
Some  of  the  curios  had  been  alive,  and,  to  the  local 
mind,  a  little  uncanny;  some  of  them  had  even  been 
human,  speaking  in  strange  tongues  and  more  uncanny 
still.  A  little  chapel  had  been  built  on  a  bleak  summit 
in  the  higher  grounds  and  served  by  a  Roman  priest,  who 
was  Lucas  Chesney 's  private  chaplain  and  was  said  to 
have  imposed  severe  and  constant  penances  upon  him; 
this  imparted  a  still  deeper  savor  of  uneanniness  to  the 


THE   RETREAT  273 

atmosphere  of  the  place  by  presupposing  the  existence 
of  mysterious  and  deadly  sin. 

But  when  Lucas  Chesney  died — which  he  did  no 
sooner  than  he  could  help  and  much  later  than  could  natu- 
rally be  expected — he  was  discovered  to  have  neglected 
one  simple  and  obvious  duty — that  of  making  a  will — so 
that  his  property  went  to  his  nearest  male  kinsman,  who 
chanced  to  be  an  Anglican  duke  and  the  head  of  the 
house,  so  the  older  form  of  worship  ceased  at  the  Retreat 
and  the  little  chapel  was  served  no  more.  The  mansion 
itself,  after  affording  a  refuge  for  widows  and  unmarried 
daughters  of  the  house,  had  been  bequeathed  by  the  last 
duke  to  his  son,  Lord  Randal  Chesney.  This  Chesney  had 
married  Ronald  Musgrave's  sister,  Olivia,  after  a  some- 
what prolonged  bachelorhood,  which  his  wife  averred  had 
been  spent  chiefly  in  educating  himself  for  the  duties  of 
married  life  and  building  up  the  character  of  an  ideal  hus- 
band— an  opinion  which  Lord  Randal,  from  the  happy  se- 
clusion of  his  study,  cheerfully  permitted  without  question. 

Though  small,  the  place  was  eminently  respectable, 
and  properly  furnished  with  the  ghost  and  the  disrep- 
utable— or  presumably  disreputable — ancestor  without 
which  no  gentleman's  country-house  can  be  considered 
complete.  There  was  an  elegant  and  aristocratic  poverty 
in  the  bleak  and  barren  acres  of  which  the  estate  con- 
sisted, and  an  elegant  and  aristocratic  cycle  of  legends 
concerning  Lucas  Chesney  and  his  strange  household — 
legends  which  made  up  in  variety  what  they  lacked  in 
antiquity.  Much  moss  and  lichen  on  the  quaint  stone 
roofs  and  walls  gave  an  air  of  false  antiquity  to  the 
house  itself. 

"Why  don't  you  hold  a  bazaar  or  flower-show  or 
something  in  the  grounds  ? ' '  Ronald  asked  the  lady  of  the 
house  over  the  breakfast-table;  "you've  nothing  to  spoil 
and  plenty  of  room." 

"I  don't  wish  to  grow  gray  before  my  time — though 
I  believe  Randal  wants  me  to  do  so.  He  hates  being  per- 
petually mistaken  for  my  father  at  hotels. ' ' 


274  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Why  not  gratify  a  harmless  whim?  Though  a 
husband,  Randal  is  still  human.  You  were  always  sel- 
fish, Olivia;  selfishness  is  horrid  in  a  woman." 

' '  Then  let  me  be  true  to  myself,  Ronald,  and  be  horrid 
still.  Besides,  the  exchequer  won't  run  to  it.  Let  us 
content  ourselves  with  making  these  theatricals  a  success 
to  the  best  of  our  ability.  Have  you  found  me  a  stage 
manager  ? ' ' 

' '  Yes,  and  knocked  an  orchestra  together.  And  I  've 
discovered  a  leading  lady  for  you." 

"Discovered?  Why  they  swarm;  they're  thicker 
than  blackberries;  every  girl  who  has  ever  so  much  as 
walked  on  any  boards  is  competent  to  be  a  leading  lady, 
in  her  own  estimation." 

' '  But  this  one  isn  't — in  her  estimation — only  in  mine, 
which  makes  all  the  difference  and  distinction.  She 
doesn  't  so  much  as  suspect  herself  of  genius,  or  talent,  or 
even  capacity.  And  I  haven't  so  much  as  whispered  the 
thing  to  her.  I  want  you  to  do  it." 

"My  dear  Ron,  I  really  can't  have  another  woman  in 
the  house.  My  party  is  made  up — every  corner  and 
cranny  is  full." 

"You  needn't  have  her  in  the  house.  It's  local  tal- 
ent ;  she  lives  on  the  place — that  is,  at  Wimbury. ' ' 

' '  Nonsense.  Nobody  lives  at  Wimbury  or  ever  did  in 
the  memory  of  man.  You  can't  mean  Kitty  Mayne, 
surely. ' ' 

"Not  quite.  The  nobody  I  allude  to  is  younger  and 
— well,  without  being  exactly  good-looking,  she's  the 
type  that  looks  well  on  the  stage,  makes  up  well.  The 
sort  of  figure  for  the  stage,  too,  and  the  voice.  I  heard 
her  recite  a  few  lines  of  poetry  and  sing.  I  was  dining 
there  last  night — with  my  old  chum,  Rosny,  don't  you 
know.  It's  his  wife.  Of  course  you  called  on  them." 

"  So  I  believe.  And  I  seem  to  remember  their  dining 
here.  But  you  know  they  don't  go  out.  He  is  a  philan- 
thropic faddist — always  on  boards,  founding  societies, 
and  originating  schemes.  Randal  thinks  everything  of 


THE   RETREAT  275 

him;  I  believe  he  knows  him  rather  well.  Everybody 
seems  to  consult  this  Mr.  Rosny  on  everything — he  is  a 
sort  of  provincial  Lord  Shaftesbury,  without  the  evan- 
gelical leaven.  Fabulously  rich  though,  and  yet  he 
chooses  to  live  in  the  simplest  way  in  that  quiet  cottage. 
His  last  fad  is  buying  an  estate  and  building  an  indus- 
trial village  upon  it.  Because,  of  course,  when  people 
have  enough  to  do  without  tiring  themselves,  and  healthy 
houses  to  live  in  without  paying  any  rent  to  speak  of, 
and  are  properly  washed  and  fed,  and  amused  without 
any  trouble  to  themselves,  they  never  do  or  even  think 
what  they  ought  not  to.  They  don't  even  get  drunk 
when  they  have  enough  to  drink,  and  it's  not  wratered — 
of  course,  I  'm  alluding  to  the  lower  classes,  who,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Rosny  and  his  like,  are  all  born  exactly  alike — 
very  dull  and  so  totally  devoid  of  originality  that  they 
haven't  so  much  as  an  original  sin  to  bless  themselves 
with." 

' '  Come,  Livy,  you  needn  't  sneer  at  Dick  Rosny.  Very 
few  people  are  fit  to  black  his  boots." 

' '  I  wouldn  't  dare  to  black  so  much  as  his  reputation. 
Though  a  rich  banker,  I  believe  he's  a  religious  man. 
The  mystery  to  me  is  how  such  a  pattern  of  propriety 
came  to  be  such  a  friend  of  yours. ' ' 

"We  were  messmates  as  mids.  We  sowed  our  wild 
oats  together;  lie  wasn't  born  without  original  sin  any 
more  than  I  was.  That's  how.  Just  before  he  left  the 
service  he  turned  religious — was  going  to  marry  and 
settle  down.  Kitty  must  have  converted  him  before  she 
jilted  him.  Or  perhaps  the  jilting  did  it.  I  like  old 
Dick  in  spite  of  all.  He  wants  this  young  wife  waked 
up  and  brought  out.  She's  been  brooding  over  a  dead 
baby ;  he  thinks  she 's  too  quiet  and  too  much  alone.  Why 
don't  you  take  her  up  and  brighten  her,  Livy?  You 
often  grumble  because  there's  nobody  fit  to  speak  to 
within  a  dozen  miles." 

"So  Kitty  jilted  our  admirable  Crichton?"  Lady 
Randal  said,  thoughtfully  helping  herself  to  strawber- 


276  RICHARD    ROSNY 

ries ;  ' '  kindly  converting  him  first  to  prevent  his  blowing 
his  brains  out?  How  original  of  her!  So  few  girls 
would  have  thought  of  it;  but  Kitty  was  ahvays  so  con- 
siderate. And  Rosny  was  so  thankful  for  the  jilting  that 
he  turned  religious  and  philanthropic  and  married  a 
young  genius — not  exactly  good-looking,  don 't  you  know, 
but  the  type  that  makes  up  well  on  the  stage — I  quite 
understand.  And  they  all  live  next  door  to  each  other  in 
a  little  village  at  the  other  end  of  nowhere.  What  an 
idyll!  And  how  very  tenderly  those  two  Christian 
matrons  must  love  one  another,  Ronald ! ' ' 

The  morning  was  bright  and  beautiful  as  a  summer 
morning  can  be  in  the  country  within  sight  of  the  sea. 
Evelyn  felt  its  beauty  to  her  heart's  center  when,  Rich- 
ard having  gone  to  his  day's  business,  she  stood  alone 
in  the  garden  where  the  dews  had  scarcely  dried,  and 
looked  across  green  spaces  on  the  soft  yet  vivid  blue  of 
the  summer  sea,  that  had  scarcely  a  sound  in  all  its 
hushed  waves  and  calmed  surf.  An  exquisite  breath  of 
tea-rose  vitalized  the  still  and  sunny  air,  mingling  with 
muskier  scents  of  other  roses  in  rich  and  delicate  variety, 
and  enfolding  her  in  an  enchanted  calm.  After  all,  the 
earth  is  beautiful,  she  thought ;  and  life,  surely  life  still 
had  promise  even  for  her.  Her  narrow  prison  was  very 
lovely  and  its  quiet  very  healing.  She  sighed  a  deep, 
long  sigh  that  was  half  happiness,  though  she  thought  it 
all  pain,  and  went  about  the  daily  nothings  that  made  all 
her  duties  with  a  subdued  content  through  which  glowed 
the  splendor  of  the  summer  with  all  its  roses.  And 
always  somewhere  in  her  brain  rang  the  echoes  of  that 
song  of  Salaman  's  full  of  the  languors  of  longing  and  the 
glory  of  dreams — 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark  and  silent  stream, 
The  champak  odors  fail, 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream. 

Only  Shelley  could  imagine  that  line,  and  what 
charm  in  the  musical  phrase  fitting  it!  What  was 


THE   RETREAT  277 

Champak?  Some  rich  Oriental  blossom,  perfumed  with 
poetry  and  romance,  heavy  with  dream  beauty,  sweeter 
than  any  known  odor?  Both  music  and  words  had  a 
mysterious  charm.  Often  and  often  she  had  sung  "I 
arise  from  dreams"  with  pleasure,  but  without  realiz- 
ing its  subtle  and  exceeding  loveliness  as  now,  when 
the  voice  of  this  man  had  given  it  something  her 
lighter  feminine  tones  could  never  express.  What 
an  exquisite  melody!  Yet  Salaman  was  not  among 
the  great  musical  composers;  only  this  once  it  had 
been  given  him  to  fit  an  exquisite  song  to  exquisite 
music. — "Once  and  only  once  and  for  one  only,"  per- 
haps. 

The  song  floated  through  the  household  accounts,  was 
heard  in  the  half-hour  spent  in  the  kitchen  over  homely 
details  of  the  day's  needs,  and  echoed  in  the  garden 
among  the  roses  and  cherries ;  it  was  played  softly  on  the 
piano  and  flitted  dimly  through  nocturnes  of  Chopin  and 
intermezzos  of  Schumann,  and  came  in  like  a  refrain 
through  the  day's  reading  of  poetry  and  prose.  It  was 
the  grace  before  and  after  the  slight  and  solitary  lunch- 
f. on  that  divided  the  day 's  monotony,  and  was  still  sound- 
ing deliciously  in  some  remote  corner  of  consciousness, 
when  the  drowsy,  golden  peace  of  the  summer  afternoon 
was  stirred  by  the  crunch  of  wheels  on  gravel,  and  the 
lonesome  sound  of  a  bell  echoing  through  a  silent,  empty 
house  was  heard — 

"  And  a  spirit,  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me — who  knows  how  ? — 
Hath  led  me  to  thy  chamber  window,  sweet." 

Evelyn  woke  at  the  bell  and  sang  the  lines  softly, 
balancing  herself  on  a  hammock  in  the  shade. 

The  wheels  and  the  ringing  were  promptly  answered 
by  the  indignant  bark  of  Rollo,  who  started  up  from  the 
grass  at  her  feet. 

"Down,  Rollo,  down!  it's  only  a  tramp  or  an  old- 
clothes  man,"  she  said  rather  sadly. 


278  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"  My  cheek,  my  cheek  is  cold  and  wan, 

My  heart,  my  heart  beats  loud  and  fast, 
Oh,  press  it,  oh,  press  it  to  thine  own, 

Or  it  must  break,  or  it  must  break  at  last! " 

And  Kichard  could  sleep  placidly  through  that?  Yet 
she  had  seen  him  shiver  at  Kathleen  Mavourneen.  Once 
he  had  asked  her  not  to  sing  ' '  I  arise. "  "  Not  a  woman 's 
song,"  was  his  verdict.  "Besides,  it's  rather — rather 
— you  don't  understand,  dear.  I  dislike  to  hear  you 
sing  it." 

"  A  spirit  hath  led  me  to  thee,  sweet, 
A  spirit  hath  led  me " 

No  spirit  but  Rhoda,  the  solidly-built  housemaid, 
eagerly  welcomed  by  Rollo,  glad  to  find  his  barking  pub- 
licly justified,  with  her  announcement  in  studiously  un- 
surprised tones,  of  "Lady  Randal  Chesney  and  Captain 
Musgrave. ' ' 

These  were  duly  discovered  in  the  cool,  dark  parlor, 
where  the  blinds  were  drawn  and  bowls  of  roses  and 
carnations  made  a  sweet  freshness,  and  where  Evelyn, 
pausing  in  the  doorway  with  dazzled  eyes  to  make  out  the 
visitors  in  the  shadows,  seemed  to  Lady  Randal  a  stri- 
king and  incongruous  figure  in  such  homely  surround- 
ings. 

"I've  been  trying  to  come  for  ages,  dear  Mrs.  Rosny," 
she  said  with  a  warm  hand-clasp.  "But  I  find  that  one 
always  has  such  a  host  of  engagements  when  one  has 
nothing  to  do — an  infinite  deal  of  nothing,  that  takes  cen- 
turies and  centuries  to  transact.  Don't  you?" 

"Ah!"  replied  Evelyn  with  judicious  vagueness  and 
a  level  glance  that  was  almost  discomposing,  ' '  very  kind 
of  you  to  come.  Yes,  there  is  rather  too  much  nothing  to 
do  hereabouts — at  times.  How  do  you  do,  Captain  Mus- 
grave? I  am  afraid  you  found  it  hot  driving,  Lady 
Randal.  So  exposed  on  the  down;  no  shade." 

"But  you  are  so  deliciously  cool  here,"  the  visitor 
returned,  sitting  down  with  a  thoughtful  and  educated 
arrangement  of  her  skirts. 


THE   RETREAT  279 

"And  so  perfectly  charming,"  her  brother  added, 
while  Evelyn  glided  into  an  opposite  chair  with  a  dis- 
creet disposal  of  her  own  draperies.  Then  these  women 
took  notes  of  each  other,  as  perfect  strangers,  while 
placidly  weaving  a  web  of  chat  suited  to  lifelong 
acquaintance;  and  a  subtle  antagonism  from  Heaven 
knew  what  in  Evelyn's  secret  soul  grew  and  grew 
against  the  noble-looking  woman  with  the  delicate  aqui- 
line features  and  violet-blue  eyes,  who  had  been  a 
much  photographed  and  fashion-papered  beauty  in 
youth,  and  was  handsomer  than  ever  in  her  prime, 
and  was,  besides,  so  strangely  like  and  unlike  her 
brother. 

"I  want  you  to  come  much  oftener  to  the  Retreat; 
we've  seen  so  very  little  of  you  lately,  dear  Mrs.  Rosny. 
So  romantic  of  you  to  lead  this  hermit's  life.  Some- 
thing so  fascinating  in  it.  We  all  admire  the  beautiful 
way  in  which  your  husband  gives  away  all  his  great  pos- 
sessions— like  the  young  man  in  the  Bible — I  mean  the 
one  who  didn't,  but  ought  to  and  was  sorry." 

"His  great  possessions?"  Evelyn  mentally  echoed, 
with  a  flush  and  a  frown.  ' '  My  husband 's  tastes  are  sim- 
ple," she  said;  "he  is  easily  contented.  The  way  to  be 
happy  is  to  cultivate  simple  tastes." 

"And  roses,"  Musgrave  put  in;  "and  the  Muses  and 
the  Graces  and  the  domestic  and  civic  virtues,  and  a 
garden. ' ' 

"Things  are  not  always  as  simple  as  they  seem,"  his 
sister  said.  ' '  Or  hermits  as  virtuous ;  they  are  sometimes 
even  a  little  selfish;  they  don't  consider  the  claims  of 
their  less  perfect  neighbors,  or  reflect  on  the  dulness  to 
every-day  sinners  of  having  nobody  to  dine  with  them. 
"Will  you  come  to  luncheon  to-morrow,  dear  Mrs.  Rosny  ? 
It  would  give  us  all  so  much  pleasure.  We  shall  be  quite 
alone,  my  husband,  my  brother  and  I." 

"Circumstances  under  which  people  invariably 
squabble.  Such  intense  domestic  privacy  is  too  much 
for  average  sinners,"  the  brother  added.  "So  that  in 


280  RICHARD    ROSNY 

mere  Christian  charity,  Mrs.  Rosny  is  bound  to  come  to 
the  rescue  of  weaker  vessels." 

"You  are  very  kind;  but  I'm  not  going  out  just 
now. ' ' 

' '  But  we  want  you  to  come  in,  not  to  go  out.  Put  it 
in  that  way.  Not  ?  Well ;  very  soon.  So  glad  to  have 
found  you  at  home.  What  dear  bellows!  So  homelike. 
No  tea,  thanks.  I  have  to  go  on  to  the  vicarage.  Come, 
Konald." 

"But  mightn't  I  stay  and  have  tea?"  he  suggested. 
"I'm  dining  at  the  vicarage  to-night.  Some  faint  rem- 
nant of  conscience  restrains  me  from  teaing  there,  too. 
Besides,  even  cousins  are  fellow-creatures,  or  at  least 
ought  to  be  treated  as  such. ' ' 

' '  I  think  you  really  might, ' '  Evelyn  said.  There  was 
a  sudden  childlike  gaiety  in  the  brightened  face  and 
dancing  eyes  she  turned  to  him,  that  reflected  itself  in  his 
own  and  gave  him  a  careless  throb  of  delight  mixed  with 
surprise.  This  was  not  wholly  lost  on  Lady  Randal,  who 
paused  in  her  rustling  exit  to  ask  about  a  picture  and 
say  another  good-by,  with  a  sharp  side-glance  at  those 
two  suddenly  illuminated  faces. 

"A  child,  a  mere  child,"  she  reflected,  when  Ronald 
was  packing  her  skirts  round  her  in  the  carriage;  "un- 
conscious of  her  beauty,  unaware  of  her  charm  or  of  her 
gifts.  Quite  an  interesting  find. ' ' 

She  looked  back  with  a  last  little  farewell  nod  at  the 
slender  figure  in  pale  gray  and  black  lace  standing  in  the 
porch  and  showered  upon  by  overblown  roses.  The  pink 
petals  lay  in  the  folds  of  her  gown,  on  her  shoulders,  and 
in  the  waves  of  her  shining  hair,  a  spray  of  golden  lime- 
blossom  was  in  her  belt,  else  she  had  no  color  except  the 
cherry  and  rose  of  her  face  and  mouth,  and  the  warm 
brown  of  her  soft,  dark  eyes,  that  were  earnest  and 
thoughtful  as  they  watched  the  victoria  and  high-step- 
ping bays  out  of  sight. 

"Come  into  the  garden,"  she  said  then,  turning  a 
bright  face  to  her  guest;  "I  thought  of  having  tea  out 


THE    RETREAT  281 

under  the  trees.  What  a  long  story  I  shall  have  to  tell 
my  husband  to-night!  But,  first  of  all,  I  have  to  pick 
strawberries  for  dinner ;  I  had  forgotten.  He  likes  them 
gathered  just  as  the  sun  goes  off.  Will  you  help  1 ' ' 

' '  He  likes  them  picked  so,  does  he  ?  It  strikes  me  that 
my  old  pal  is  in  clover.  Now,  /  like  to  pick  my  own. 
We  '11  divide  the  duty,  Mrs.  Rosny ;  the  laborer  is  worthy 
of  his  hire." 

It  seemed  quite  natural  and  friendly  and  pleasant  to 
be  set  strawberry-picking  in  this  unceremonious  way. 
Ronald  shook  with  silent  laughter,  while  he  bent  over  the 
beds  and  obeyed  orders,  and  was  asked  his  experimental 
opinion  upon  this  and  that  variety,  and  enjoined  to  put 
none  but  pines  in  one  basket,  but  what  sort  he  liked  in 
the  other.  ' '  And  don 't  eat  too  many  now,  because  they 
are  so  much  nicer  with  cream, ' '  was  the  final  injunction. 

The  deep,  grassy  paths  bordering  the  beds  were  cool 
to  step  in,  and  the  shadows  playing  across  them  were 
pleasant ;  scents  of  lavender,  carnation,  and  lime-blossom 
came  and  went  "like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream." 

"I  can  hardly  picture  Richard  in  the  days  when  he 
was  intimate  with  you,"  Evelyn  said  over  the  tea-cups. 

"Don't  try,  Mrs.  Rosny;  he  wasn't  half  as  good  as  he 
is  now;  in  fact,  he  was  almost  wicked  enough  to  match 
me." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  continued  slowly,  "that  I 
shouldn't  have  liked  him  better — then.  Because,"  she 
added  hastily,  ' '  he  had  no  beard  then  and  the  lower  part 
of  his  face  is  very  good,  as  you  can  see  by  the  photo- 
graphs. ' ' 

' '  Of  course.  So  natural, ' '  said  a  voice  a  little  shaken 
by  laughter.  "He  was  much  more  of  an  Adonis  before 
he  left  the  service — half  his  charms  not  being  hidden,  if 
possible,  that  is  to  say — but  I  speak  under  correction." 

"And  naval  uniform  is  so  becoming — even  when  not 
worn.  That  is  to  say,  when  people  have  uniform  they 
can  always  put  it  on — to  be  photographed,  for  instance. 
How  I  wish  he  was  still  in  the  navy,  Captain  Musgrave ! ' ' 


282  RICHARD    ROSNY 

"But  you  wouldn't  like  to  have  to  be  a  grass-widow 
half  your  time  while  he  was  at  sea,  would  you?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  it  wouldn't  be  better  on 
the  whole  to  have  him  at  sea.  There  would  always  be  the 
coming  home  to  look  forward  to.  And  he  would  not  be 
too  busy  and  overworked  to  be  companionable  when  he 
did  come  home.  It  would  be  like  a  fresh  honeymoon 
every  time. ' ' 

"What  an  appalling  prospect! — an  endless  succes- 
sion of  fresh  honeymoons!  I  was  brought  up  to  think 
one  as  much  as  frail  humanity  can  be  expected  to 
endure. ' ' 

' '  Ah !  but  then  you  never  did  endure  it. ' ' 

' '  Not  experimentally ;  but  the  sorrows  of  one 's  fellow- 
men  are  instructive.  What  heavenly  tea!  I  thought 
only  bachelors  could  brew  a  good  tea.  Average  draw- 
ing-room tea  has  wrecked  many  a  robust  constitution. 
But  Olivia  always  gives  you  decent  tea.  I  hope  you  will 
like  my  sister,  Mrs.  Rosny.  She  is  most  anxious  to  culti- 
vate your  acquaintance.  You  have  so  many  tastes  in 
common." 

"Have  we?  Really?  But  what  can  you  know  of 
my  tastes?" 

"Well,  I  can  guess.  To  begin  with,  music,  poetry, 
recitation,  acting " 

"But  you  must  be  a  wizard.  Only  I  never  acted  in 
my  life." 

' '  But  you  can  and  will.  You  are  a  potential  actress ; 
I  can  tell  it  by  your  face  and  voice.  If  my  sister  could 
persuade  you  to  help  her,  she  might  often  manage  a  little 
show  at  the  Retreat,  and  so  enliven  the  neighborhood. 
It  wants  enlivening,  Heaven  knows." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Yet  people  seem  very  well  con- 
tent with  things  as  they  are.  Mrs.  Mayne,  for  instance. ' ' 

"Kitty's  an  exception.  She  does  things  all  day  long 
by  the  clock,  and  then  sits  up  all  the  night  to  invent 
more.  But  you,  Mrs.  Rosny,  what  can  you  do  all  the 
long  day?" 


THE   RETREAT  283 

She  smiled  a  curious,  little  fatigued  smile,  opening 
her  hands  and  letting  them  sink  dejectedly  again.  ' '  Oh, 
that  is  a  very  short  story,"  she  said,  laying  one  arm 
slowly  along  the  back  of  the  bench  on  which  she  sat,  her 
head  thrown  slightly  back  against  the  brown  trunk,  and 
soft  lights  dancing  over  her  hair ;  ' '  and  very  simple.  I 
give  my  husband  his  breakfast  and  sort  his  letters  and 
newspapers — Richard  is  one  of  those  fearful  people  who 
can  do  five  things  at  once.  Sometimes  I  read  out  the 
leading  telegrams  to  him  while  he  runs  through  his  let- 
ters, pencils  the  heads  of  answers,  amuses  the  cat,  and 
eats  his  breakfast;  it's  quite  an  art,  and  he  excels  in  it. 
Then  I  remind  him  of  things  he  is  afraid  of  forgetting, 
all  down  the  path  to  the  gate,  and  watch  him  hurrying  to 
his  train  till  he  is  out  of  sight.  When  he  is  gone  I 
recollect  the  little  trifles  he  wants  done,  and  order  dinner 
and  arrange  the  flowers.  By  that  time  it  is  ten,  some- 
times eleven.  Then  I  begin  to  wonder  what  train  he  will 
return  by.  That's  all." 

' '  But  between  eleven  and  luncheon  what  do  you  do  ?  " 

"Wonder  when  he  will  come  again." 

"And  all  the  afternoon?" 

"Go  on  wondering — till  tea  time.  And  after  tea  I 
go  on  wondering  again." 

' '  Ah !  and  then  ?  But  I  must  pry  no  further.  But  I 
amagine  that  seven  o'clock  is  a  happy  hour  for  some- 
body." 

"Seven?  Sometimes  it's  eleven.  Dinner  is  a  mov- 
able feast  in  this  house.  Is  it  a  right  or  wholesome  life 
for  a  man,  Captain  Musgrave  ?  I  can  not  think  so.  He 
has  no  mercy  on  himself.  He's  so  dead  tired  that  he 
almost  falls  asleep  at  table.  And  when  he  can  manage 
to  keep  awake,  he  writes  letters — horrid,  dry  business  let- 
ters— or  puzzles  over  written  papers  and  calculations 
after  dinner  till  midnight.  Enough  to  ruin  the  digestion 
of  an  ostrich,  I  tell  him." 

"Make  him  take  you  into  society,  Mrs.  Rosny.  Tell 
him  you  want  change  and  amusement.  You  are  too  easy 


284  RICHARD    ROSNY 

with  him.  Men  need  discipline — that 's  why  I  never  mar- 
ried; didn't  want  to  be  bitted  and  curbed  till  I'd  had  my 
fling." 

She  looked  so  young  and  soft  and  sad  under  the  tree, 
with  her  arm  along  the  back  of  the  garden  seat  and  her 
face  a  little  thrown  back  and  tired  eyelids  drooping ;  and 
the  voice  in  which  she  told  her  tale  of  the  perpetual  wait- 
ing that  made  her  life  was  so  tired  that  it  made  his 
heart  ache ;  every  line  in  her  figure  and  every  tone  of  her 
voice  expressed  a  prolonged  and  desperate  weariness  that 
haunted  him  for  many  a  day. 

Yet  the  afternoon  was  gay;  he  tore  himself  away  at 
the  last  permissible  moment  with  an  apology  for  the  long, 
pleasant  stay. 

"  Oh !  it  has  been  pleasant, ' '  she  replied.  ' '  Talking  to 
you  is  like  a  fragment  out  of  Richard's  youth." 

In  the  evening  Richard  was  both  pleased  and  sur- 
prised to  find  her  so  gay  and  communicative.  "  I  'm  glad 
you  like  Musgrave, ' '  he  said ;  "  I  hope  he  will  come  often 
and  cheer  you  up,  and  I'm  sure  you  will  like  the  Ches- 
neys  too.  They  are  very  pleasant  and  cultivated  people. 
They'll  take  you  out  of  yourself." 


CHAPTER   XXV 

A   SONATA   OF   BEETHOVEN'S 

ANNIS  ROSNY  spent  her  summer  holiday  between 
home  and  Wimbury,  sometimes  at  the  cottage  and  some- 
times at  the  vicarage,  equally  welcome  at  either,  but  most 
welcome  of  all  at  home  in  the  small  villa  at  Sandycombe, 
to  which  broken  fortune  had  led  her  father  in  his  old 
age.  When  at  Sandycombe,  some  errand  was  always 
taking  her  to  Wimbury,  and  when  an  hour 's  bicycle  spin 
had  conveyed  her  to  Wimbury,  there  was  usually  some 
valid  reason  for  remaining  there.  When  she  spun  home 
on  her  bicycle,  Basil  Mayne  frequently  accompanied  her, 
and  when  she  returned  to  Wimbury  it  was  often  because 
he  had  been  sent  to  fetch  her ;  and  when  she  was  at  either 
of  those  three  houses  a  bicycle  ride  with  Mr.  Mayne  was 
an  almost  daily  occurrence. 

"The  bicycle,"  Mr.  Mayne  observed  on  one  of  these 
occasions,  "is  the  true  and  only  Woman's  Emancipator. 
What  Sisterhoods  have  been  shrieking  for,  what  people 
have  been  agitating,  lecturing,  and  wrangling  over  for 
three  parts  of  a  century,  was  suddenly  and  quietly 
accomplished  by  the  first  turn  of  the  first  lady's  safety 
wheel.  That  freed  a  whole  sex." 

"In  one  bloodless  revolution.  Yes;  it  has  widened 
the  horizon  of  female  life — by  two  score  miles,  at  least. 
It  has  made  us  creatures  of  action  and  delivered  us  from 
the  bondage  of  the  fireside." 

"Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  the  Queen's  Highway. 
It  has  raised  you  to  the  rank  of  our  comrades." 

"Raised?     Oh,  raised?     Instead  of " 

"I  don't  exactly  know  what.  But  something  very 
19  285 


286  RICHARD   ROSNY 

far  off .  It  has  cut  through  a  whole  labyrinth  of  conven- 
tions. I  believe  that  it  is  still  improper  for  two  people 
to  drive  alone  together.  Yet  the  moment  the  bicycle 
came,  solitary  girls  scoured  the  country  upon  it,  and 
nobody  said  a  word.  Glorious  wheel,  emblem  of  For- 
tune, messenger  of  Fate !  Roll  it  in  Greek  hexameters, 
or  spin  it  into  a  Pindaric  Ode." 

"It  has  its  tragic  side,  its  reverses." 

"When  one  is  under  it.  And  it  is  possible  to  be 
broken  on  the  wheel. ' ' 

' '  Well,  let  us  mount  ours,  and  leave  this  bank  of  wild- 
thyme  else  we  shall  be  in  wild  time  for  dinner  and  the 
bank  of  Kitty 's  patience  will  be  broken. ' ' 

Nancy  had  no  claim  to  beauty,  but  Basil  Mayne  liked 
the  look  of  her  in  bicycling  dress,  with  wind-flushed 
cheeks  and  bright  eyes.  Nor  was  Mr.  Mayne  a  model  of 
loveliness.  He  wore  pince-nez  glasses  and  shaved  not  at 
all  to  save  time ;  but  he  spoke  seven  languages  and  looked 
on  the  Higher  Mathematics  as  a  light  mental  recreation. 
As  Fellow  and  Tutor  of  Goldenose  he  was  held  in  some 
esteem.  He  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Annis  Rosny 
at  a  married  Fellow's  house,  while  she  was  a  student  of 
one  of  the  women's  colleges  at  his  University;  they  were 
now  old  friends  and  found  many  things  to  discuss  on  the 
numerous  occasions  when  bicycles  appear  to  need  rest. 
The  founding  of  a  Chair  of  Oriental  philosophy  at  Cam- 
ford,  the  question  of  University  degrees  for  women,  the 
progress  of  biological  science  and  the  probability  of  the 
infinity  of  space.  When  people  discuss  the  properties- 
of  space,  they  sometimes  forget  the  existence  of  time. 

On  this  occasion  they  found  Kathleen  already  dressed 
and  waiting  for  them,  with  the  spoken  intelligence  that 
they  were  to  dine  at  the  cottage,  where  they  were  due  in 
ten  minutes,  and  the  unspoken  conviction  that  Basil's 
recent  conversion  to  the  toleration  of  married  fellows 
was  mainly  responsible  for  their  lateness. 

"Clever  people  are  never  punctual,"  Kitty  apolo- 
gized to  an  impatient  husband.  "On  the  other  hand, 


A   SONATA   OF   BEETHOVEN'S     287 

they  waste  no  time  in  dressing.  They  don 't  dress ;  they 
only  change  their  clothes." 

"The  distinction  is  too  fine  for  me,  Kitty." 

"There's  no  distinction  in  the  result,  Herbert.  He 
never  shaves  and  she  never  curls.  What  can  you  expect  ? 
Here  they  are." 

' '  I  didn  't  expect  that.  She  has  nice  round  arms,  and 
he  has  a  good,  firm  step." 

He  also  has  a  good  straight  back  and  square  shoul- 
ders, with  no  scholar's  stoop,  his  age  being  a  little  over 
five-and-thirty.  Whenever  Annis  looked  at  him  she  felt 
the  mellow  security  and  comfort  inspired  by  a  country 
full  of  hedges  and  corn-fields  and  cozy  cottages  and 
orange-roofed  farms,  and  whenever  she  spoke  to  him  she 
was  quite  sure  of  being  understood.  So  few  people 
understand  what  is  said  on  subjects  of  interest.  Half 
the  world  is  dumb  and  the  other  half  deaf,  except  when 
the  weather,  the  crops,  the  money  market,  or  the  frocks 
of  actresses  are  discussed.  This  makes  half  the  tragedy 
of  the  world ;  there  are  so  many  million  people  in  it  and 
not  one  to  speak  to. 

"I  like  Basil  Mayne,"  Annis  had  been  heard  to  say. 
"He  is  honest  and  companionable  and  very  well  in- 
formed. ' ' 

"Annis  Rosny  is  quite  reasonable  for  a  woman," 
Basil  had  confessed;  "she's  good-tempered  and  not 
opinionated.  And  she  knows  enough  to  know  that  she 
knows  nothing." 

"Then  she  knows  as  much  as  Socrates,  Basil,  and  is 
much  better-looking,"  Herbert  said. 

Six  people  filled  the  little  dining-parlor  well,  but  the 
Maynes  were  not  surprised  to  find  a  seventh  there  in  the 
person  of  Ronald  Musgrave.  Seven  is  a  lucky  number, 
but  not  always  a  convenient  one.  In  this  case,  the  par- 
lor being  so  full,  there  was  an  unexpressedx  feeling  as  of 
one  of  the  party  being  superfluous,  and,  as  the  even  num- 
ber wras  in  the  masculine  gender,  it  must  have  been  one 
of  the  men. 


288  RICHARD   ROSNY 

The  night  being  so  warm  and  still  and  mellowed  by 
the  light  of  a  broad  red  moon,  it  was  plcasanter  and  less 
cramped  outside  under  the  trees  after  dinner.  The  turf 
was  dry  and  dewless  and  the  scent  of  mignonette  and 
carnation  hung  in  the  air.  The  conversation  was  not 
fatiguingly  intellectual.  Lady  Randal's  theatricals — in 
which  Evelyn,  as  Lady  Teazle  to  Musgrave's  Sir  Peter, 
had  been  the  acknowledged  star,  and  which  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  dance  and  attended  by  everybody  within 
reach  and  many  more  specially  imported  for  the  occa- 
sion— having  already  taken  place,  furnished  ample  mate- 
rial for  light-hearted  and  irresponsible  criticism  and 
reminiscence. 

"What  I  liked  best  in  the  play,"  Rosny  said  pres- 
ently, it  being  two  nights  after  the  dramatic  entertain- 
ment, "was  the  minuet  afterward." 

' '  The  Rosnys  are  of  Irish  descent, ' '  Nancy  explained. 

"Spare  my  blushes,  Dick,"  Ronald  said.  "Remem- 
ber that  I  had  the  honor  of  acting  as  foil  to  Mrs.  Rosny 
on  that  occasion." 

"I  know  I  ought  not  to  admire  my  wife's  doings  in 
public,"  Rosny  said,  "but  I'm  rustic  and  plain-spoken, 
and  I  can't  help  it." 

"Justifiable  under  the  circumstances,"  the  vicar  said, 
"quite  justifiable." 

"Nobody  admires  me;  I  can't  get  a  hand  from 
anybody,"  Ronald  complained,  with  cheerful  incon- 
sistency. 

"Oh,  you  were  perfectly  lovely.  You  glittered  like  a 
star, ' '  Annis  said.  ' '  No  dancing-master  could  have  done 
the  steps  and  bows  better." 

"Couldn't  you  say  something  more  complimentary, 
Miss  Rosny?  Grace,  charm,  elegance?  What,  Dick? 
Dance  a  minuet  in  cold  blood  in  the  open  air  without  cos- 
tume? These  things  are  not  done." 

Yet  the  thing  was  clone,  though  not  absolutely  with- 
out costume  of  a  kind.  The  minuet,  it  was  averred,  was 
an  epitome  of  the  courtly  grace  of  a  forgotten  age;  it 


A   SONATA   OF   BEETHOVEN'S     289 

was  a  joy  to  see;  it  inspired  delicate  thoughts  and  gra- 
cious ways;  it  should  be  revived  to  the  purification  of  a 
decadent  century.  It  was  a  libel  on  human  nature  to 
suppose  refined  ceremonial  impossible  without  powder. 
Besides,  the  moonlight  and  the  grass  and  the  leafy  shad- 
ows supplied  the  charm  of  remoteness  and  lent  poetry 
even  to  the  prose  of  male  evening  dress.  Nancy's  violin, 
deftly  touched  in  the  shadows,  was  the  very  instrument 
for  minuet  music. 

Rosny  was  fascinated  by  the  stately  measure  and 
slow  rhythm,  and  by  the  gliding  grace  of  the  slender, 
white  figure  glimmering  in  and  out  of  long,  black  shad- 
ows on  the  turf.  The  yellow  moonlight  had  almost  the 
warmth  of  sun ;  the  shadows  were  black  and  sharp ; 
the  far-off  murmur  of  sea  came  fitfully  between  the 
violin  phrases;  steps  were  noiseless  on  the  soft  sward; 
the  dancers  flitted  dreamlike  with  uncertain  outlines, 
black  and  white  in  deep  shadow  and  soft  moonlight ;  the 
faintest  stir  of  balmy  air  shook  musky  odors  from  unseen 
roses  and  carnations;  all  the  prospect  of  hill  and  field 
gleamed  vague  and  unreal  in  magic  light.  Richard  was 
sorry  when  the  last  long  cadence  died  from  the  violin 
and  the  lady  acknowledged  the  black  cavalier's  final  rev- 
erence with  a  sweeping  courtesy  that  shivered  ripples  of 
light  from  her  silken  draperies. 

"A  Ronald  for  an  Oliver.  You  ought  to  give  a  pas 
seul  in  return,  Rosny.  A  breakdown,  a  hornpipe." 

"Bears  only  dance  to  leaders.  Can  you  fancy  your 
bear  blundering  gracefully  about  on  his  hind  legs, 
Evelyn?" 

"He  was  a  keen  dancer  in  his  youth,  Mrs.  Rosny. 
You  remember  his  dancing,  Kitty?"  Ronald  asked. 
"You  remember  that  fancy-dress  ball  at  St.  Ann's  one 
Christmas?" 

"Perfectly.    You  were  a  Black  Hussar,  Ronald." 

' '  And  Dick  Sir  Walter  Raleigh ;  Miss  Rosny,  you  were 
a  child;  you  and  the  little  Beltons  came  to  look  at  us; 
you  may  not  remember  it." 


290  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Oh!  perfectly.  Your  death's  head  and  bones  gave 
us  all  the  creeps.  We  all  fell  in  love  with  Kathleen  as 
belle  Iseult." 

"Richard  dancing!  Richard  at  a  fancy-dress  ball! 
How  unimaginable!"  Evelyn  exclaimed.  "You  never 
dance  now,  Richard?" 

"Never  now,"  he  said  sadly,  his  face  white  in  the 
moonlight.  ' '  That  was  my  last  dance. ' ' 

His  eyes  met  Kathleen 's ;  it  seemed  to  Evelyn  that  a 
glance  of  secret  intelligence  passed  between  them  and 
Kathleen's  face  softened  and  became  sweet  with  sympa- 
thetic feeling. 

"It's  growing  chilly,"  Kathleen  said  then  with  a 
shiver;  "the  dew  is  beginning  to  fall." 

' '  Take  my  shawl,  Mrs.  Mayne ;  I  am  perfectly  warm, ' ' 
Evelyn  said,  with  cold  civility. 

She  was  more  than  warm ;  her  blood  boiled.  She  saw 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  the  belle  Iseult  dancing,  dancing 
through  a  long  night,  long  ago  when  Nancy  was  a  child. 
It  was  his  last  dance.  They  must  have  been  engaged 
then.  After  that  the  rupture  must  have  taken  place, 
else  why  should  he  give  up  dancing  from  that  particular 
date?  Else  why  should  they  exchange  those  glances, 
and  why  should  Kathleen  suddenly  fancy  chills  and 
dews  in  the  warm,  dry  air  of  that  moonlit  night? 

In  the  general  move  to  the  house,  Evelyn  found  her- 
self behind  with  Musgrave;  their  eyes  met  in  the  clear 
moonlight,  hers  on  the  point  of  brimming  over,  his  bril- 
liant and  appealing. 

' '  Show  me  the  night-blowing  stock, ' '  he  said,  and  she 
turned  down  a  little  alley  and  stopped  by  a  border  full 
of  a  bright  confusion  of  flowers  sleeping  in  the  dreamy 
light.  Their  shadows  fell,  mingling  across  them,  when 
Ronald  bent  to  examine  the  insignificant  blossom  that 
filled  the  air  with  a  heavy  yet  penetrating  scent. 

' '  One  geranium-leaf  is  worth  it  all, ' '  she  said,  gather- 
ing a  large  leaf  and  drawing  its  fragrant  velvet  across 
her  lips. 


A   SONATA   OF   BEETHOVEN'S     291 

"Sometimes,"  he  assented,  looking  very  earnestly  at 
the  geranium-leaf. 

"He  must  have  been  very  different  then,"  she  said, 
looking  on  the  massed  flowers  that  stood  motionless,  as 
if  listening  in  the  magic  stillness;  "dancing — in  fancy 
dress ! ' ' 

"We  were  all  very  different  then."  His  eyes  were 
on  the  leaf  that  she  was  absently  drawing  through  her 
fingers. 

"Not  you.  I  see  you  quite  plainly  as  a  Black  Brims- 
wicker.  And  you  stiil  dance,"  she  added,  turning  back 
toward  the  house.  "Astonishing  what  a  little  thing  will 
change  the  tenor  of  a  life.  A  word — a  look" — she  was 
thinking  of  the  tenderness  in  Kathleen's  eyes  and  the 
appeal  in  Richard's. 

"  Or  a  tone, ' '  he  added,  his  voice  softened  and  vibra- 
ting, ' '  even  a  scent, ' '  taking  the  geranium-leaf  from  her 
with  a  look  of  furtive  daring  mixed  with  tender  fierce- 
ness, that  passed  unnoticed  in  her  preoccupation.  "A 
sigh  too  much  or  a  kiss  too  long " 

Evelyn  turned  quickly  with  a  look  of  flushing,  startled 
inquiry;  he  paused  for  one  doubtful,  dangerous  mo- 
ment :  her  eyes  calmed,  her  step  grew  firm  and  even,  and 
she  passed  into  the  broad  band  of  moonshine  before  the 
house.  "And  the  world  is  never  the  same  again,"  he 
concluded,  with  a  catch  in  his  breath  and  a  sudden  drop 
to  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

"Browning,  isn't  it?  Yes,  Browning.  How  I  wish 
they  wouldn't  go  in  on  this  lovely  night!" 

Her  step  quickened  unconsciously,  a  buzz  of  voices 
came  from  the  open  window.  She  drew  a  quick  breath 
as  of  relief  from  danger  passed  and  shelter  reached,  and 
went  gladly  in  before  him. 

A  whist-table  was  being  made  up,  and  Ronald,  look- 
ing dazed  by  the  moonlight,  cut  with  Basil  Mayne  and 
won,  to  his  secret  disgust.  Evelyn  went  as  far  from  the 
whist-players  as  the  little  room  would  allow  and  opened 
the  piano,  gently  pushing  Nancy  on  to  the  music  stool. 


292  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Basil  Mayne  placed  music  on  the  desk,  and  sat  down  in  a 
shadowy  corner,  whence  his  eye-glasses  twinkled  in  the 
direction  of  the  piano. 

Evelyn  sat  in  full  light  under  the  two  swords,  where 
Richard  could  see  her  well.  Two  red  roses  burned  in  her 
cheeks,  her  eyes  were  like  stars,  her  features  exalted  by 
strong  inward  excitement ;  her  husband  thought  that  her 
beauty  seemed  to  grow  with  the  days ;  she  had  forgotten 
the  little  grave  in  the  churchyard  at  last.  The  piano  was 
softly  touched  and  the  magic  of  the  marvelous  Adagio 
that  opens  the  sonata  in  C  sharp  Minor  filled  the  room. 
All  the  charm  and  mystery  of  the  summer  night,  its 
flower-scented  freshness  and  balm,  sounded  in  that  simple 
and  softly  flowing  movement,  that  a  child  might  play  but 
could  never  feel ;  all  the  calm  and  soft  sighing  of  a  moon- 
burnished  sea  was  there,  wave  shimmering  to  wave  in 
hushed  delight;  all  the  glamour  of  poetic  passion  satis- 
fied to  calm  was  there,  but  ever  and  again  the  thunder  of 
sleeping  storm  woke  in  the  deep  bass  notes  and  calmed 
to  peace  again  with  far-heard  boom.  But  in  the  yearning 
of  the  simple  melody  floating  on  the  surface  or  rolling 
through  the  depths,  was  the  wild,  ever-restrained  cry  of 
unsatisfied  longing,  the  infinite,  divine  despair  of  an  ever- 
lasting denial,  the  " desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star." 
Now  an  exquisite  hope  rose  in  the  melody  and  shat- 
tered itself  upon  a  rock  of  denial ;  it  rose  and  fell  broken 
again  and  rolled  back  in  surf  and  spray,  to  sink  into 
the  stillness  of  a  sublime  acquiescence,  deep  down, 
where  the  storm  thundered  fitfully  and  trembled  into 
silence. 

Then,  without  a  pause,  followed  the  tripping  measure 
of  the  Allegretto,  light  and  bright  and  fairylike  as  the 
dance  of  moonbeams  on  rippling  waves ;  delicate  phrases 
chased  each  other  from  wave  to  wave,  mingled  and  broke 
like  the  glancing  gold-flake  of  moving,  moonlit  waters. 
Such  light  dalliance  and  delicate  mirth  will  sometimes 
skim  the  surface  of  a  profound  passion.  But  through  all 
there  broke  ever  and  again  the  faint  cry  of  eternal  desire 


A   SONATA   OF   BEETHOVEN'S     293 

and  perpetual  denial;  the  moonbeams  danced  with  the 
waves,  again  and  again  the  faint  cry  was  heard.  The 
trio  plunged  into  still  and  secret  depths,  shadows  danced 
on  the  waves,  thunder  of  the  bass  muttered  fitfully  with 
a  hint  of  coming  storm.  Then  again  the  fairy  dance 
of  rippling  waves  and  the  faint,  far-off  cry  of  passion 
and  pain. 

The  music  touched  Evelyn  too  deeply  after  the  charm 
of  real  moonlight  and  faint-heard  sea  outside  in  the 
soft  night ;  she  could  hardly  bear  it,  and,  turning,  looked 
across  the  room  straight  into  the  dark,  burning  eyes  of 
Ronald  Musgrave.  An  electric  current  seemed  to  flash 
between  them,  something  met  and  mingled  with  a  thrill- 
ing shock  in  their  meeting  glances,  a  veil  was  snatched 
away ;  the  music  had  told  them  all.  An  agony  of  exulta- 
tion shook  Evelyn's  heart,  and  overflowed  from  the  soft, 
dark  depths  of  her  eyes,  a  proud,  fierce  rapture  flamed  in 
Ronald's;  for  one  delirious  moment  each  knew  and  con- 
fessed everything;  then  the  room  swam  round  Evelyn, 
her  glance  fell,  her  cheeks  burned.  The  world  could 
never  be  the  same  again. 

It  was  but  a  moment.  Annis,  carried  away  by  the 
beauty  and  fervor  of  that  divine  composition,  could  not 
break  off,  but,  without  considering  the  difficulties  of 
execution,  plunged  hotly  into  the  Presto  agitato,  hardly 
pausing. 

The  storm  was  up,  the  winds  unchained,  the  fountains 
of  the  great  deep  broken  up.  The  moon  distilled  her 
unsullied  beams  upon  raging  waters;  heaped  tides  pur- 
sued her  in  perpetual  baffled  yearning;  great  breakers 
plunged  madly  upon  rock  and  reef  and  dissolved  in  foam 
with  hollow  boom  far-echoing  and  multitudinous.  The 
old  cry  of  passion  and  pain  rose  again,  intensified  and 
unrestrained;  mellow  thunders  rolled,  melodious  cries 
pealed  through  the  growing  tumult  of  unchained  tempest 
that  walked  abroad  at  will  upon  wide  wastes  of  raging 
sea.  Evelyn  felt  the  music  in  every  fiber ;  she  knew  with- 
out looking  that  Ronald  still  held  the  geranium-leaf 


294  RICHARD   ROSNY 

pressed  to  his  lips,  and  was  vaguely  conscious  that  the 
whist-players  had  stopped,  with  cards  lying  fresh-dealt 
before  them.  Ronald  was  like  a  man  enchanted  to 
marble  and  unconscious  of  things  near ;  she  dared  not  look 
at  the  others,  she  shuddered  in  wild  exultation,  and  let 
her  heart  go  out  upon  the  splendid  tumult  of  the  music. 
Now  the  moon  was  lost ;  now  the  light  poured  down  jagged 
edges  of  steep  black  cloud  on  the  tossing,  roaring  waste ; 
now  a  vast  roller  thundered  up  from  the  heart  of  the  sea 
and  caught  and  crashed  a  great  vessel  like  a  nutshell  on 
an  iron  shore;  now  the  spent  storm-blast  fled  far  away 
over  the  wild  waste,  and  left  the  waves  quieting  in 
steady  moon-rays.  Nancy  felt  the  triumph  of  the  great 
sea  courses  as  they  leaped  and  plunged  and  shook  their 
white  manes;  she  had  never  been  so  glad  before.  But 
the  old  cry  broke  perpetually  through  the  gladdest,  wild- 
est tumult,  and  boomed  far  off  in  the  softened  thunder 
of  distant  surge — the  cry  of  unmeasured  longing  and 
illimitable  desire,  the  immemorial  voice  of  the  ever-striv- 
ing sea  ''hungering  for  calm."  Rosny  felt  it,  and  the 
one  inextinguishable  regret  and  the  one  inextinguishable 
hope  of  his  life  quivered  through  his  heart.  Kathleen 
remembered  how  and  why  she  had  once,  and  only  once, 
played  that  divine  sonata  well;  her  husband  felt  in  the 
tumult  and  triumph  of  the  wild  sea-thunders — baffled 
and  broken  at  the  very  summit  of  desire,  but  rolling  up 
again  unsubdued  forever  in  their  despairing  hope,  the 
unconquerable  longing  of  the  finite  for  the  infinite,  of 
the  human  for  the  divine.  Basil  Mayne  sat  motionless 
in  the  shadow,  his  face  inscrutable  behind  misty  eye- 
glasses twinkling  in  the  flicker  of  a  shaken  candle-flame, 
and  wondered,  while  the  music  stormed  on  with  the 
promise  of  a  vast  consolation  in  its  fiercest  tumult  and 
came  to  an  abrupt  end  upon  staccato  chords. 

Nancy,  flushed  and  dreamy-eyed,  left  the  piano  and 
sat  in  the  window-seat,  looking  out  into  the  moonlit 
garden  like  a  somnambulist,  for  a  measurable  space.  The 
silence  seemed  to  throb  with  an  audible  pulse;  a  breath 


A   SONATA   OF   BEETHOVEN'S     295 

of  wind  rustled  through  the  trees  and  wafted  clematis 
scent  into  the  room. 

"Why,  Nancy,"  Herbert  said  at  last  and  broke  the 
spell,  ' '  I  never  heard  you  play  like  that  before. ' ' 

"I  never  did,"  she  said,  and  the  buzz  of  voices  rose 
again  and  the  players  took  up  their  cards  and  one  of 
them  trumped  his  partner's  ace. 

When  Nancy  and  the  Maynes  were  walking  back  to 
the  vicarage,  all  four  unusually  silent,  Herbert  and 
Kathleen  going  ahead  in  a  narrow  part  of  the  road, 
Basil  stopped  to  gather  honeysuckle  in  the  clear  moon- 
shine. 

"Sweetest  at  night,"  he  said,  offering  it  to  Annis. 
"A  wonderful  sonata,  but  why  moonlight?  And  won- 
derfully played.  You  did  not  play  with  fingers,  you 
played  it  with  your  soul." 

' '  Some  spirit  must  have  played  it,  not  I.  I  am.  no 
pianist. ' ' 

"I  shall  remember  it  as  long  as  I  live: 

"  'The  high  that  proved  too  hi^h,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 
Is  music  sent  up  to  heaven  by  the  lover  and  the  bard — ' 

Beethoven  wrote  that  sonata  because  he  was  hopelessly 
in  love  with  a  woman  beyond  his  reach.  He  thought 
himself  very  unhappy,  but  he  was  not.  It  is  a  great 
thing  to  be  able  to  long  for  what  is  out  of  reach.  It  is  a 
great  thing  to  be  able  to  desire  anything  strongly,  to  feel 
the  worth  of  what  can  never  be  won." 

"Evidently  you  are  not  a  Buddhist,  then." 

"Not  I.  The  extinction  of  desire  is  the  extinction  of 
life.  Nirvana  is  death.  Don't  you  agree  with  me  that 
to  desire  a  certain  happiness  is  to  be  capable  of  it,  and 
even  to  taste  it  in  a  sort  of  anticipatory  fashion,  and  that 
therefore  to  desire  happiness  is  a  sort  of  happiness  in 
itself?" 

' '  Yet  the  desire  of  unattainable  food  is  no  remedy  for 
starvation. ' ' 

"But  hunger  presupposes  health.     And  the  desire  of 


296  RICHARD    ROSNY 

food  impels  the  generality  of  mankind  to  take  active 
measures  to  procure  it. ' ' 

"Surely  the  sonata  means  'Infinite  passion  and  the 
pain  of  infinite  hearts  that  yearn.'  ' 

' '  And  those  feelings  are  the  springs  of  all  fine  action 
— the  infinite  passion  that  Browning  saw  in  the  Cam- 
pagna  and  Matthew  Arnold  heard  in  the  Thames  night- 
ingale, Beethoven  felt  in  the  sea  and  expressed  in  that 
sonata.  It  is  very  stimulating,  don 't  you  think  ?  It  lifts 
one  up  out  of  the  smoke  and  mire,  it  reconciles  one  to 
pain,  and  shows  the  grandeur  of  denial.  Yes ;  it  is  good 
to  bear  the  ache  of  baffled  longing.  I  shall  always  be 
grateful  to  you  for  that  divine  sonata,  Miss  Rosny." 

"Be  grateful  to  Beethoven  and  his  crossed  love  in- 
stead.— Coming,  Kitty?  Why,  it's  striking  twelve,  fairy- 
time." 

But  though  fairy-time  was  late  for  that  simple  house- 
hold, it  was  early  for  the  university  don,  who  paced  the 
dry  sward  with  a  brier-wood  pipe  in  his  mouth  after  the 
good  nights  had  been  said,  and  was  joined  by  his  brother 
in  a  companionable  silence.  Presently  Basil  shook  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  refilled  it. 

"That  chap,  Musgrave,"  he  said  during  the  process, 
' '  is  out  of  his  element  here.  He 's  no  good.  A  precious 
loose  fish.  I  hate  the  beast." 

' '  Oh !  he 's  very  well  in  his  way ;  a  man  of  the  world. 
No  saint,  certainly,  but  good-hearted.  My  wife's  cousin. 
I've  always  found  him  pleasant.  Chesney  likes  him. 
You  know  that  he  is  Lady  Randal 's  brother.  And  he  is 
a  very  old  friend  and  messmate  of  Rosny 's.  Surely  he 
is  quite  at  home  here,  among  us  all." 

"Very  much  at  home  here;  far  too  much  at  home 
and  at  his  ease  in  this  little  Zion.  You  persons  are  too 
innocent  by  half.  Why,  my  good  Herbert,  you  don't  see 
what  other  men  see  at  a  glance — that  Musgrave  is  a  regu- 
lar fast  man.  He's  notorious.  He  has  been  in  scandals 
without  end." 

"Parsons  are  allowed  to  be  ignorant  of  the  world's 


A   SONATA   OF   BEETHOVEN'S     297 

wickedness  and  unacquainted  with  its  scandals,  Basil, 
therefore  they  should  exercise  the  greatest  charity.  But 
Goldenose  is  not  exactly  in  the  wildest  vortex  of  the 
world." 

"It's  no  charity  to  bring  such  a  sweep  as  that  into 
intimacy  with  unsuspecting  women,  Herbert.  Some  of 
them  will  rue  it." 

' '  Come,  come ;  I  can 't  think  very  badly  of  a  man  who 
finds  so  much  pleasure  in  our  quiet  house  and  is  so  fond 
of  Kitty's  society.  A  good  woman  like  Kitty  instinc- 
tively turns  from  a  really  bad  man.  They've  been 
friends  all  their  lives.  And  a  bad  fellow  would  not  have 
kept  up  this  long  friendship  with  Rosny,  who  appears  to 
think  him  a  suitable  companion  and  friend  for  his  young 
wife." 

"Oh,  Rosny!     Rcsny's  a  fool." 

' '  He 's  a  very  able  man.  At  least  three  counties  look 
up  to  Rosny  as  a  man  who  can  do  things  and  can 't  be  done 
without. ' ' 

"A  man  may  be  very  able  in  some  things — and  an 
awful  fool  in  others.  Rosny 's  blind." 

"I  think  not.  But  the  eyes  of  jealousy  are  prover- 
bial." 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

RICHARD'S  BLINDNESS 

BLIND,  indeed,  Rosny  was,  in  his  utter  trust  in  those 
who  had  never  deceived  him ;  blind,  too,  in  his  absorption 
in  innumerable  business  and  family  cares;  he  had  not 
time  to  observe  what  passed  immediately  before  his  eyes. 

He  saw  nothing  unusual  in  Evelyn  during  those 
glowing  August  days ;  nor  did  her  spasmodic  gaiety  and 
nervous  excitement  trouble  him.  The  morning  after  the 
sonata  found  her  in  a  state  of  mental  tension  in  which  it 
was  impossible  to  touch  food.  Once  or  twice  during 
breakfast  she  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  wild  and 
piteous  appeal  in  her  overbright  eyes,  and  her  lips  moved 
as  if  trying  to  frame  a  sentence  that  was  never  spoken. 
But  the  day's  papers  and  correspondence  were  unusu- 
ally absorbing,  and  his  eyes  never  left  their  perusal. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Evelyn  when  he  rose  and  went ;  and 
yet  she  walked  to  the  gate  with  him  and  watched  him  out 
of  sight,  as  if  her  safety  depended  upon  his  presence,  and 
she  knew  that  his  absence  left  her  defenseless  and  in 
extreme  peril.  Through  all  the  tumult  of  the  wild,  sweet 
pain  that  troubled  her  ran  an  undercurrent  of  over- 
mastering terror  of  actually  seeing  the  face  that  was 
ever  present  to  fancy,  fierce  tenderness  and  delirious  tri- 
umph naming  in  the  eyes  and  the  geranium-leaf  pressed 
to  the  lips,  as  during  the  enchantment  of  the  sonata. 
She  felt  her  weakness  in  ever  fiber,  and  knew  not  how  to 
conquer  herself.  If  Richard  had  but  been  true,  she  told 
herself,  she  might  still  have  sheltered  herself  in  his  love. 
But  that  glance  in  the  garden,  when  the  fancy  ball  was 
alluded  to,  and  his  engagement  to  Kathleen  recalled, 
298 


RICHARD'S    BLINDNESS         299 

that  mutual  glance  finally  destroyed  her  one  forlorn 
hope  and  left  her  defenseless  in  the  hour  of  her  great 
need.  She  could  not  rest;  she  started  at  every  sound, 
fearing  the  step  for  which  she  was  secretly  longing.  At 
one  moment  she  thought  of  flying — anywhere,  every- 
where— from  the  terrible  joy  that  was  ravaging  her 
soul;  at  the  next  she  was  computing  the  probability  of 
meeting  what  she  most  dreaded. 

A  note  announcing  the  well-worn  headache,  which  is 
the  feminine  form  of  the  urgent  business  that  postpones 
so  many  masculine  engagements,  excused  her  at  the 
Retreat  where  she  was  due  at  luncheon,  and  the  day  wore 
away  in  feverish  solitude  till  five  o  'clock,  when  the  sound 
of  wheels  made  her  start  and  shudder  and  fly  to  her 
room.  There  her  worst  fears  were  confirmed  by  the 
entrance  of  Rhoda  with,  "Lady  Randal  Chesney  to 
inquire,  if  you  please 'm,  and  are  you  well  enough  to  see 
her?" 

' '  Is  she  alone  ? ' '  was  the  tremulous  question,  and  the 
reply  in  the  affirmative  was  as  saddening  as  it  was  tran- 
quilizing. 

"So  kind  of  you,"  she  said,  coming  into  the  parlor; 
' '  I  was  so  sorry  to  miss  going  up  to  luncheon ;  but  a  head- 
ache makes  one  such  a  bore  and  nuisance.  So  I  kept 
indoors  in  the  shade,  and  ate  nothing,  and  it  is 
going  off." 

Lady  Randal  said  that  even  headaches  could  not  make 
bores  of  some  people,  with  a  smile  that  was  pleasant  to 
see.  ' '  You  must  come  up  of tener  now,  dear  Mrs.  Rosny, 
now  that  we  are  going  to  be  so  solitary.  No  tea,  thanks. 
I  am  due  at  the  vicarage  to  implore  Kitty  to  let  me  off 
some  of  her  parish  functions.  She  pursues  her  parishing 
with  such  a  fury,  that  little  woman.  One  could  forgive 
her  personal  fervor,  but  unluckily  she  must  needs  drag 
everybody — particularly  my  luckless  self — into  the  cur- 
rent of  her  furious  activities.  I  suppose  it  is  the  right 
thing;  no  doubt  she  is  a  model  vicaress.  One  respects 
Kitty ;  but  I  confess  that  I  stand  in  considerable  awe  of 


300  RICHARD   ROSNY 

her.  I  'm  fond  of  her,  but  not  with  the  perfect  love  that 
casts  out  fear.  How  much  ought  one  to  love  one's  cous- 
ins, Mrs.  Rosny?" 

' '  It  depends  a  good  deal, ' '  she  replied  with  acidity — 
for  the  old  jealousy  of  Nancy  was  awake — "upon  their 
sex." 

1 '  Very  true ;  the  sex  should  always  be  opposite.  It  is 
a  great  mystery,  child.  One  always  'likes  the  lads  best' 
— unless  one  is  a  lad  oneself,  then  one  prefers  the  lasses, 
providing  one  has  taste.  My  husband  has  none,  I  regret 
to  say,  though  he  chose  me,  by  a  happy  fluke,  I  suppose. 
But  Ronald,  I  sadly  fear,  likes  the  lasses  far  too  well. 
I  often  wish  I  could  roll  the  two  men  together  and  then 
cut  them  out,  like  pastry.  They  would  make  a  couple  of 
eminently  respectable  mediocrities  whom  we  should  all 
heartily  detest.  Which  is  the  most  intolerable — respect- 
able mediocrity  or  eminent  virtue?  They  run  one 
another  fairly  close,  I  fancy." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  was  the  fervid  response. 
"Eminent  virtue  can  be  most  appalling,  most  intolerable, 
especially,"  she  sighed;  "especially  to  live  with." 

"My  dear  child,  I  trust  you  are  not  speaking  from 
experience,  for  you  certainly  possess  an  eminently  vir- 
tuous husband." 

' '  Oh,  no ;  he  is  not  so  bad  as  all  that ;  don 't  slander 
him  in  his  own  house,  Lady  Randal.  I  can  assure  you 
that  he  is  not  entirely  devoid  of — amiable  weaknesses, 
though,  on  the  whole,  he's  rather  like  blue  china — diffi- 
cult to  live  up  to." 

"So  is  mine,  dear.  We  are  most  unfortunate  in  that 
respect ;  and  I  am  afraid  we  don 't  try  to  live  up  to  them 
as  hard  as  we  might;  but  I  ought  only  to  speak  for 
myself.  Do  shake  off  the  headache  and  come  up  and 
comfort  our  solitude  before  we  leave,  which  I  suppose 
will  be  in  a  fortnight.  By  the  way,  Ronald  gave  me  a 
message  for  you.  All  proper  good-bys  and  regrets  and 
kind  regards.  He  had  to  leave  suddenly  and  unexpect- 
edly this  morning,  owing  to  some  mysterious  and  unex- 


RICHARD'S   BLINDNESS         301 

ampled  iniquity  on  the  part  of  somebody — at  the  Ad- 
miralty, I  fancy;  the  Admiralty  always  seems  to  be  the 
villain  of  the  piece  with  sailors,  always  making  wrong 
arrangements  and  promoting  the  wrong  people.  Wrong 
people  are  promoted  in  the  navy  by  the  authorities,  and 
right  ones  by  the  favor  of  Heaven,  as  far  as  I  can  make 
out." 

"Then  may  we  trust,"  said  Evelyn,  in  spite  of  the 
sudden  paralysis  that  seemed  to  strike  her  heart  and 
brain  and  take  all  the  savor  out  of  everything,  "that 
the  favor  of  Heaven  has  been  successfully  exerted  on 
behalf  of  Captain  Musgrave." 

"Oh,  it's  not  promotion.  He's  still  only  a  com- 
mander, and  at  present  with  nothing  to  command  but  his 
own  idle  time.  I  believe  he  has  some  idea  of  going  to 
Greenwich  in  the  autumn  for  a  six-months'  course  of 
something  terrible — higher  mathematics,  international 
law,  and  all  the  dreadful  things  post-captains  have  to 
know.  But  he  doesn't  want  to  be  a  salt  horse.  I  have 
to  say  all  his  good-bys  for  him,  owing  to  this  sudden 
change  in  his  plans.  Tiresome  fellow,  as  if  he  couldn't 
write  to  everybody  and  tell  his  own  fibs.  By  the  way, 
I  was  to  say  how  very  much  the  cottage  hospitality  had 
added  to  the  charm  and  enjoyment  of  his  stay." 

"But  I  doubt  if  that  is  a  fib,"  Evelyn  began  with  slow 
gravity. 

' '  Dear  Mrs.  Rosny,  you  are  so  charmingly  quick  and 
quaint.  You  have  me.  It  certainly  was  not." 

"We  shall  miss  your  brother  sadly,  Lady  Randal;  I 
shall  have  to  break  it  very  gently  to  my  husband  to-night. 
He  is  not  the  most  sociable  of  men,  but  his  few  friend- 
ships are  strong." 

"Still  waters,  you  remember? — but  Kitty's  muffins 
will  be  cold.  So  good-by  and  remember  your  promise. ' ' 

"No  harm  done;  no,  I  am  sure  there  is  no  harm 
done,"  Lady  Randal  thought,  when  she  rolled  smoothly 
away  behind  the  bright  bays.  ' '  She  was  white  and  grew 
whiter  and  whiter  as  we  chattered,  but  took  the  news 

20 


302  RICHARD   ROSNY 

without  turning  a  hair.  The  headache  was  real.  That 
kind  of  woman  always  has  headaches,  unless  she  has 
babies.  I  always  rouge  after  mine,  they  leave  me  so 
deathly  white.  And  those  parched  lips  with  the  black 
marks.  Oh!  I  know  the  headache  demon  very  well  by 
sight ;  and  the  weather  is  so  cruelly  hot.  These  men  are 
so  subtle ;  one  can  never  tell  their  game.  He  doesn  't  go 
for  her;  then  he  must  go  for  that  quiet  Nancy  Rosny. 
Tired  of  beauty,  no  doubt,  and  'she  plays  Beethoven 
divinely,'  does  she?  He  knew  very  well  that  the  Maynes 
were  dining  there  last  night  and  went  on  the  chance  of 
meeting  Nancy.  I  am  glad  that  no  harm  has  been  done. 
I  like  the  child  and  feel  rather  responsible  for  her.  Per- 
haps the  marriage  is  happier  than  it  seems." 

Nor  was  the  news  of  Captain  Musgrave's  sudden 
departure  productive  of  any  wild  lamentations  and  dis- 
may at  the  vicarage,  where  it  was  received  with  a  cheer- 
ful equanimity  wholly  incompatible  with  hidden  tragedy. 
Later  in  the  evening,  indeed,  Herbert  Mayne  remarked  to 
Kathleen  that  the  departure  afforded  him  some  relief 
after  Basil's  unsatisfactory  verdict  on  the  character  of 
the  departed.  ''Surely,  Kitty,"  he  added,  "you  must 
know  if  he  is  that  kind  of  man.  Your  father  and  brothers 
would  know.  And  he  was  always  thought  fit  to  be  on 
cousinly  terms  with  you." 

"They  certainly  didn't  want  me  to  marry  him,  Her- 
bert. Mother  thought  that  being  with  us  was  a  safe- 
guard for  him.  She  warned  me — he  certainly  was  a 
little  wild  in  those  days — but  I  doubt  if  he  was  worse 
than  many  others.  I  think  he  is  all  right  now ;  though  we 
should  all  be  glad  to  hear  of  his  marrying  and  settling 
down  with  some  good  girl." 

' '  Kitty,  you  appall  me ;  you,  you  of  all  women,  to  talk 
of  marrying  and  settling  down  in  that  easy  way.  The 
poor,  good  girl!  You  who  demand  a  spotless  past  and 
contemn  the  smallest  need  of  repentance." 

She  crimsoned  and  appeared  distressed.  "It  seems 
very  inconsistent,"  she  replied  gently,  "but  I  am  not  a 


RICHARD'S   BLINDNESS         303 

model  woman  exactly.  I  am  very  exacting  in  some 
respects.  And  yet —  But  the  generality  of  women  are 
different — only  too  ready  to  condone  an  evil  past.  They 
may  be  wiser  than  I — only  I  don't  think  so.  To  return 
to  poor  Ronald,  Herbert,  I  really  don't  think  he  is  the 
black  sheep  Basil  suggests.  I  should  rate  him  as  an 
average  man  of  the  world,  careless,  pleasure-loving,  capa- 
ble of  better  things.  Basil  is  hardly  a  fair  judge.  He 
is  jaundiced  by  jealousy.  That  is  why  he  'hates  the 
beast.'  " 

' '  Basil  1  Basil  jealous  ?  But  you  have  to  be  in  love 
before  you  can  be  jealous,  Kit. ' ' 

"On  the  contrary,  jealousy  is  often  the  forerunner  of 
love — especially  in  your  horrid  sex.  Men  always  want 
what  other  men  prize.  To  play  one  man  off  against 
another  is  a  very  old  trick.  Many  a  hesitating  swain  has 
been  brought  to  the  point  by  that  stale  device. ' ' 

"I  must  confess  that  I  wondered  why  Basil  had  dis- 
covered so  much  charm  in  remote  and  slow  Wimbury. 
Poor  old  chap,  I  thought  him  wedded  to  Goldenose.  This 
accounts  for  so  much  cycling.  Poor,  dear  old  chap ! 
Who  is  safe  in  a  world  like  this  ? ' ' 

When  Lady  Randal  was  safely  off  the  place,  Evelyn 
crept  back,  like  a  mortally  wounded  creature,  to  her  room 
and  let  her  despair  have  its  way.  If  he  feared  to  speak 
of  his  sudden  departure,  he  ought  to  have  written;  to 
tell  her  in  this  way  was  nothing  less  than  brutal ;  it  ex- 
posed her,  unprepared  and  undefended,  before  his  sis- 
ter 's  very  eyes ;  before,  he  knew  not  whose  eyes.  He  could 
never  have  done  such  a  thing  had  he  known.  No,  he 
had  not  divined  her  secret,  and  only  fled,  most  wisely  and 
honorably,  from  his  own  danger.  Yet  a  danger  seen  and 
fled  is  only  half  a  danger.  The  music  had  moved  him 
and  revealed  a  possibility  to  him,  not  an  actuality.  That 
look,  exultant  and  wild,  tender  and  fiery,  meant  only  the 
surprise  of  a  sudden  thought.  "This  might  have  been, 
and  it  would  have  been  so  sweet,  but  it  can  not  be." 
That  Avas  all.  Yet  the  geranium-leaf — who  could  forget 


304  RICHARD   ROSNY 

the  geranium-leaf '?  And  that  wild  moment  in  the  moon- 
light by  the  night-blowing  stock  ?  Yet  he  was  gone  with- 
out a  word,  with  worse  than  no  word — that  cruelly 
public  apology.  Why,  indeed,  could  he  not  "tell  his 
own  fibs?"  She  had  been  so  happy  in  her  blindness, 
behind  that  screen  of  friendship  and  interest  in  Richard 's 
youth;  all  had  been  so  innocent,  so  sweet,  so  uplifting. 
But  now —  It  was  the  cry  of  Gretchen,  the  world-old 
cry — 

My  peace  is  gone, 
My  heart  is  sore ; 

I  shall  find  it  never, 
Ah!  nevermore. 

"Oh,  Richard,"  she  moaned  as  she  lay  face  downward 
on  her  sofa,  "what  have  you  done  to  me;  what  have  you 
brought  on  me  ?  If  you  had  but  cared  for  me,  if  you  had 
been  ever  so  little  kind  to  me,  if  you  had  but  thought  me 
worth  while." 

So  she  lay  like  a  broken  flower  in  the  rain  till  the  next 
morning.  The  serviceable  "headache"  had  been  re- 
ported to  Richard  on  his  return,  with  a  request,  that  was 
now  rapidly  becoming  familiar  to  him,  to  be  left  quite 
alone  for  at  least  twelve  hours. 

' '  Her  nervous  system  was  too  tense ;  she  needed  much 
quiet, ' '  she  was  accustomed  to  tell  him,  to  his  great  sur- 
prise. 

"For,"  he  sometimes  said,  "my  conscience  often  wor- 
ries me  for  giving  you  such  a  monotonous  life. ' ' 

"You  don't  understand,  Richard;  the  male  intellect 
seems  unable  to  conceive  the  horror  of  headache!" 

"Mother's  headaches  are  so  different.  I  always 
understood  them ;  she 's  had  them  all  her  life,  or  at  least 
all  mine,"  he  said,  and  Evelyn  smiled  rather  bitterly. 
"I  can't  even  have  the  proper  kind  of  headache,"  she 
thought.  "His  mother's  is  the  only  orthodox  kind,  it 
appears. ' ' 

"You  poor  little  thing!"  he  said,  when  she  appeared 
at  breakfast  after  her  twelve  hours'  solitude.  "You 


RICHARD'S   BLINDNESS         305 

have  had  a  rough  and  tumble  with  this  wretched  head- 
ache this  time,  and  no  mistake.  I  don't  half  like  these 
headaches,  Evelyn.  I  should  like  you  to  see  Thorne, 
dear.  It  may  be  a  small  matter,  after  all — a  matter  of 
sight.  A  pair  of  glasses  might  set  you  right." 

He  had  laid  a  gentle  hand  on  each  of  her  shoulders, 
and  stood  looking  down  from  his  superior  height  into  her 
ravaged  face,  with  real  and  deep  concern  mixed  with 
pity.  She  could  not  avoid  his  gaze,  she  dared  not  meet 
it ;  a  sudden  storm  of  contradictory  feelings  rose  in  her 
desolate  heart,  her  head  drooped  till  she  hid  her  crim- 
soning, wet  face  on  Richard's  arm,  shrinking  painfully 
from  his  kiss.  "Glasses  will  never  set  this  right,"  she 
sobbed. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said,  stroking  her  bright  hair. 
' '  Cheer  up  ;  don 't  be  a  goose,  don 't  be  hysterical.  There 's 
nothing  in  the  world  to  cry  about.  I  can't  breakfast  on 
tears,  Evie,  neither  can  you.  Come,  come;  drink  some 
coffee,  and  turn  off  the  water- works. " 

He  poured  her  a  cup,  sweetened  it,  and  held  it  to  her 
quivering  lips ;  she  drank  it,  feeling  that  it  must  choke 
her.  For  the  first  time  since  her  marriage  she  felt  her- 
self in  the  wrong;  dreadful  shame  swept  over  her,  her 
pride  seemed  broken.  How  had  she  come  to  this  terrible 
pass?  she  asked  herself,  feeling  that  all  her  life  now 
must  be  duplicity  and  concealment. 

Und  alles,  was  raich  dazu  trieb, 
Es  war  so  lieblich,  ach,  so  lieb — 

She  steadied  herself  and  sat  down,  forcing  herself  to 
take  food  and  observe  the  small  courtesies  of  the  table, 
while  Richard  talked  and  read  extracts  from  the  day's 
news. 

A  woman  can  scarcely  be  in  a  more  horrible  position 
than  hers ;  she  had  not  even  the  terrible  joy  that  compen- 
sates for  so  much;  she  had  lost  herself  for  nothing, 
ensnared  by  her  deepest  needs,  entangled  by  her  best 
instincts.  The  world,  indeed,  could  never  be  the  same 


306  RICHARD    ROSNY 

again.  Suddenly  it  struck  her  that,  after  all,  her  secret 
was  her  own;  whatever  Ronald  may  have  felt,  her  feel- 
ings had  been  sacred  from  him;  whatever  he  may  have 
seen  in  that  mutual  glance.  A  look  may  be  recalled  and 
explained  away;  a  word,  never.  Every  one  had  been 
visibly  moved  and  carried  away  by  the  magic  of  that 
music.  And  she  had  made  no  response  to  those  wild  sug- 
gestions in  the  garden.  Pride  woke  at  the  thought,  self- 
respect  returned,  and  a  strange,  wild  gladness,  that  was 
yet  poignant  with  pity,  leaped  up  at  the  thought  of  the 
pain  she  had  inflicted.  Perhaps  this  sudden  flight  had 
been  the  only  course  open  for  one  so  completely  repulsed. 

"Come,  Evelyn,  try  the  mushrooms.  They  are  very 
well  done,"  Richard  said  cheerfully,  laying  his  papers 
down.  "Hullo,  here's  a  letter  from  Musgrave;  why, 
what 's  this  ? "  he  asked,  tearing  it  open  and  absorbing  it 
in  his  rapid  way.  "Finds  he  has  sudden  business  in 
town;  no  time  for  good-bys;  going  on  to  Scotland  for  a 
month 's  grouse  and  salmon.  May  have  a  ship  after  that ; 
if  not  Greenwich.  Well,  dear,  there's  small  chance  of 
seeing  him  here  again,  I'm  afraid.  'Kindest  regards  to 
your  wife,  and  apologies  for  not  calling  to  say  good-by. ' 
— Well,  the  only  wonder  was  that  he  stopped  so  long. 
And  Nancy's  going  to-morrow.  You  must  have  some  one 
to  stay  here,  Evelyn,  unless  you  care  to  go  to  the  Pines 
till  we  get  our  holiday.  When  Thome  hears  of  the  head- 
aches he'll  probably  say  change  of  air.  I  can't  have  you 
look  like  that;  something  must  be  done." 

"Don't  fret  about  me,"  she  replied  quickly;  "you 
have  so  many  worries." 

"I'll  fight  it  down,"  she  said  to  herself  fiercely,  "I'll 
fight  it  down,  I  '11  die  fighting,  but  I  '11  not  be  beaten. ' ' 

Never  before  had  she  practised  serious  self-restraint ; 
all  her  brief  life  had  been  a  yielding  to  feelings  and 
impulses  or  revolt  at  the  pain  of  their  perpetual  denial. 
Gentle  and  sweet  and  good  those  impulses  had  been; 
temptation  in  any  but  gentle  forms  had  never  entered  her 
sheltered  girlhood ;  her  religious  instincts  had  but  faintly 


RICHARD'S   BLINDNESS         307 

responded  to  a  vague  conventional  creed;  she  was  self- 
centered,  and  at  the  mercy  of  every  breath  of  feeling. 

"When  do  you  mean  to  stop  over-pitying  yourself 
and  have  some  pity  to  spare  for  other  people?"  Nancy 
had  asked  once,  to  her  bitter  indignation.  The  need  for 
self-restraint  had  come  now  with  a  vengeance;  feelings 
had  at  last  overtaken  her  that  even  a  child  could  not 
mistake. 

"Don't  fret  about  me;  you  have  so  many  worries," 
ran  often  in  Rosny's  head  that  day.  He  had  become  so 
accustomed  to  have  his  occupations  and  cares  treated  as 
crimes  that  he  was  quite  touched  by  this  sudden  consid- 
eration. Still  more  was  he  charmed  and  touched  by  a 
neiv  interest  Evelyn  began  to  manifest  at  this  time  in  his 
concerns,  and  by  some  attempts  she  made  to  understand 
the  ins  and  outs  of  his  endless  philanthropic  schemes. 
He  was  never  reproached  for  being  late  now,  still  less  for 
not  coming  home  at  ail,  and  was  encouraged  to  accept  all 
public  duties — such  as  being  on  the  County  Council — 
proposed  to  him.  He  never  suspected  that  his  absence 
was  a  relief  to  her. 

But  her  nervous  system  remained  in  an  unsatisfactory 
state,  and  it  escaped  his  notice  that  she  avoided  being 
alone  with  him,  and  herself  proposed  that  Gwenny  Bel- 
ton,  who  was  at  the  awkward  between  age  so  hateful  to 
elder  sisters,  and  much  hustled  about  and  kept  under  at 
home,  should  share  their  holiday.  This  was  a  rush 
through  Normandy  and  Paris  to  the  South  of  France, 
thence  by  sea  to  Venice  and  Sicily,  a  time  of  guide-book 
reading  and  sight-seeing,  of  hotels  and  table-d'hote 
dinners,  and  trains  and  steamers,  cathedrals  and  picture- 
galleries — a  most  arduous  and  thorough  doing  of  every- 
thing that  could  be  done  in  the  shortest  possible  time,  in 
most  deadly  earnest,  in  which  Evelyn  and  Gwenny  out- 
did one  another. 

There  was  no  quiet  lingering  in  remote  spots  to  enjoy 
the  silences  and  sweet  influences  of  nature,  no  long,  sunny 
hours  on  mountain  slopes  or  within  sound  of  rolling 


308  RICHARD   ROSNY 

waves,  no  pleasant  dallying  about  old  towns,  or  aimless 
sauntering  round  historic  places,  while  their  memories 
and  associations  quietly  impressed  themselves  on  the 
memory  and  stimulated  the  imagination;  the  very  gon- 
dolas were  used  like  cabs,  only  to  go  from  one  place  to 
another,  Gwenny  expressing  dissatisfaction  with  their 
slow  pace,  while  Evelyn  quoted  Shakespeare  and  made 
Gwenny  read  the  Ruskinian  ecstasy  on  the  Piazza  of  St. 
Mark. 

Rosny  would  rather  have  lounged  in  occasional  f  orget- 
fulness  of  anybody's  impressions  and  experiences  but  his 
own,  but  was  well  content  with  what  satisfied  his  com- 
panions, while  marveling  at  the  fervor  with  which  the 
female  mind  sometimes  pursues  pleasure.  And  some- 
times it  struck  him  as  a  strange  and  uncomfortable  thing 
that  the  human  being  he  understood  least  in  the  whole 
world  was  his  wife. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

IN  THE   DTJSK 

GERALD'S  first  foreign  service  occurred  early  in  the 
autumn,  when  he  sailed  for  the  Cape,  laden  with  parting 
gifts  and  keepsakes,  burdened  with  good-bys  and  promises 
to  write,  and  highly  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  seeing 
something  new.  No  -one  finds  it  difficult  to  be  bored  by 
the  routine  of  garrison  life,  and  Gerald  had  a  capacity  for 
being  bored  that  almost  amounted  to  genius.  His  pulses 
bounded  at  the  prospect  of  shooting  wild  creatures  with 
names  ending  in  bok  and  beest,  while  the  chances  of  real 
soldiering  in  that  perplexing  continent  beckoned  most 
alluringly  to  him.  But  hardly  had  he  landed  before 
enteric  laid  hold  of  him  so  fiercely  that  on  his  recovery  he 
was  invalided  home  again. 

This,  not  entirely  without  justice,  he  termed  "the 
beastliest  luck."  He  felt  out  of  place  and  superfluous 
there,  with  three  weary  months  without  aim  or  interest 
staring  him  in  the  face  and  the  listlessness  of  recent  ill- 
ness upon  him.  Adeline,  his  special  sister  and  compan- 
ion, was  away  on  a  round  of  visits  whence  she  returned 
in  December,  preoccupied  and  dreamy,  and  anything 
but  good  company,  until  the  not  quite  unexpected  arrival 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Rupert  Chesney,  a  gay  hussar, 
nephew  of  Lord  Randal  and  eldest  son  of  the  duke's 
next  brother,  restored  her  spirits  to  their  usual  high 
level  and  culminated  in  her  engagement  to  him. 

"Jusy  fancy  Addie  within  an  ace  of  the  strawberry- 
leaves,"  was  Gerald's  comment  on  this  event. 

"I  sincerely  hope  she  won't  have  the  chance  of 
them, ' '  Richard  replied.  ' '  Unluckily  the  Chesneys  share 

309 


310  RICHARD   ROSNY 

the  popular  delusion  that  she  is  an  heiress.  Their  solicit- 
ors are  demanding  the  most  outrageous  settlements." 

"Chesney's  all  right;  he'd  marry  her  with  nothing 
but  the  gown  she  stands  in.  I  like  Chesney ;  I  knew  him 
well  at  Shorncliffe  when  I  was  at  Hythe.  But  I've 
always  said  what  a  drawback  it  is  to  belong  to  a  great 
banking  firm.  You  have  to  live  up  to  it.  And  I  never 
shall  believe  but  that  my  poor  father  was  victimized  by 
the  firm.  There  must  have  been  some  hanky-panky 
somewhere.  Who  knows  but  the  scoundrel  that  killed 
him  may  have  had  some  hand  in  it?" 

"The  old  fancy  again?    I  thought  it  had  died  out." 

"Never.  It  never  will  till  I  have  found  that  man," 
Gerald  said  excitedly,  his  eyes  growing  wild. 

"Look  here,  Gerald,  supposing  that  your  father  had 
been  entitled  to  a  large  share  in  the  firm 's  profits — Avhich 
were  very  low  and  still  dwindling  at  the  time  of  his 
death — do  you  think,  seriously,  that  his  death  could  pre- 
vent his  heirs  taking  what  was  due  to  him?"  Richard 
asked,  rising  from  the  table  in  the  peacock-room,  where 
they  had  just  dined,  and  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire. 

"Heaven  only  knows,"  replied  Gerald,  laying  aside 
his  cigar  with  a  worried  look.  "I  can't  argue  the  thing 
out,  Dick;  my  head  still  swims  from  that  beastly  fever. 
But  as  sure  as  I  am  a  living  man,  I  know,  I  feel  it  in 
my  bones — I  know  that  my  father  was  a  deeply  wronged 
man,  and  that  he  came  to  his  death  by  foul  means.  Who- 
ever did  that  deed  must  have  had  some  motive.  The 
specific  motive  is  hard  to  find.  But  we  know  that,  by 
some  mysterious  hocus-pocus,  his  death  found  him  cut 
adrift  from  Belton,  Laking  &  Co.,  of  which  he  had  been 
all  his  life  a  partner,  and  without  a  penny  in  the  world." 

' '  My  dear  boy,  what  does  that  prove  ? ' '  Richard  asked 
with  restrained  impatience. 

"That  he  was  swindled  out  of  his  rights,  Dick." 

"Is  it  so  very  unusual  on  a  man's  death  to  discover 
the  state  of  his  affairs  and  find  him  penniless  and 


IN   THE   DUSK  311 

involved?"  Richard  returned,  with  a  gentleness  that 
was  almost  tender.  "He  had  long  had  no  connection 
with  the  firm." 

' ;  When  I  've  found  the  man, ' '  continued  Gerald  with 
the  persistence  of  a  victim  of  a  fixed  idea — ' '  and  I  mean 
to  find  him — I've  dreamed  it  several  times — when  I've 
found  him,  a  lot  will  come  out,  and  my  poor  father's 
memory  will  be  cleared." 

"Of  what?"  Rosny  asked  with  the  gentleness  of 
exceeding  pity.  ' '  There  is  no  stain  on  his  memory,  Ger- 
ald, that  I  am  aware  of.  His  weakness  was  buried 
with  him." 

Gerald  looked  exceedingly  distressed,  and  a  cold  dew 
broke  over  his  forehead,  whence  he  pushed  the  short- 
cropped  curly  hair.  "I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,  I 
forget  things, ' '  he  muttered  wearily.  ' '  I  forget  things, ' ' 
he  sighed,  "but  I  never  forget  how  he  died  and  that  no 
one  avenged  him.  And  it  is  my  duty  to  do  so.  It 
haunts  my  dreams;  it  speaks  to  me  when  I  wake  in 
the  night." 

"Is  it  quite  wise,"  Richard  said,  looking  through 
moist  eyes  at  the  worried  white  face,  "quite  prudent  to 
let  your  mind  dwell  on  these  past  sorrows?  Dear  old 
chap,  your  nerves  are  still  strained  by  the  fever;  you 
are  hardly  your  own  man  yet.  The  shock  of  that  trag- 
edy on  a  child's  mind  returns,  as  such  things  will,  with 
weakness.  You  ought  never  to  be  at  the  Pines.  It  has 
too  many  associations  for  you." 

"Only  just  all  my  life,"  Gerald  returned  with  a 
little,  sad  smile.  "  'I  remember,  I  remember,  the  house 
where  I  was  born,  the  little  windows, '  etc.  It 's  soft,  but 
it's  human." 

"Well,  but  don't  brood  over  it.  Put  your  back  into 
this  business  of  Adeline's  marriage.  Arrange  all,  you 
and  mother  and  the  girls.  I  hope  Chesney  won't  cry 
off  now  at  this  eleventh  hour.  If  Archie  hadn't  made 
such  an  ass  of  himself  she  would  have  had  more.  As 
it  is,  more  will  be  settled  on  her  than  we  can  give  to  the 


312  RICHARD   ROSNY 

others  when  their  time  comes.  What  a  comfort  to 
have  Adeline  off  one's  hands!  Chesney  will  keep  her 
straight. ' ' 

"Oh,  come,  Addie's  a  handful,  I  confess,  but  not  so 
bad  as  all  that  conies  to.  She  likes  to  go  the  pace,  but 
she  never  kicks  over  the  traces,  Dick.  She  knows  where 
to  stop." 

"A  young  woman  who  excites  so  much  admiration," 
Eichard  said  slowly,  "is  a  great  responsibility,  espe- 
cially to  a  busy  man  like  myself.  She  needs  the  pro- 
tection of  a  husband." 

"Besides,"  added  Gerald,  listlessly  resuming  his 
cigar,  "you've  got  a  wife  of  your  own  to  look  after." 

"A  wife  of  my  own,"  he  echoed  with  a  smile  of  wist- 
ful gladness,  "but  not  to  look  after.  My  wife  is — well 
— she's  my  wife.  Always  gentle  and  sweet  and  still." 

"Cffisar's  wife.  But  she's  deucedly  good-looking, 
Dick;  she's  handsomer  and  handsomer  every  time  I  see 
her.  There's  more  of  her  than  there  used  to  be.  She's 
a  woman  people  turn  round  to  look  at  in  the  street.  I 
never  saw  such  a  change  from  the  baby  she  was." 

"Marriage  forms  women;  it's  their  only  education. 
Adeline  will  develop  now,  you  will  see." 

"I  wish  it  formed  men.  It  seems  to  have  pretty 
well  done  for  that  young  fool,  Archie." 

"I  don't  know  that.  I  believe  it  was  this  foolhardy 
marriage  that  turned  him  into  settling  down  to  a  desk 
in  our  house.  And  the  prospect  of  being  a  father  seems 
to  have  waked  him  up  completely." 

' '  Poor  old  Archie !  Only  twenty-one  and  done  for. 
He  '11  be  old  before  he 's  young,  poor  chap ! ' ' 

All  these  family  matters  naturally  occupied  much  of 
Rosny's  time  as  well  as  his  thoughts,  and  kept  him 
more  and  more  from  home,  where  he  now  enjoyed  the 
new  comfort  of  being  able  to  speak  of  such  troubles. 

"What  kept  me  away  last  night,  Evelyn?"  he  said 
a  few  weeks  before  over  the  evening  meal.  "Why,  Ar- 
chie this  time." 


IN   THE   DUSK  313 

' '  And  he  had  settled  down  so  well.  Is  it  more  debt  ? 
I  did  think  Archie  was  safely  launched  at  last,  Richard. ' ' 

"Well,  he  just  said  to  me  yesterday,  'I  suppose  you 
ought  to  know  that  I'm  married.  I  married  last  Janu- 
ary, and  yesterday  there  was  a  boy.'  That  was  Master 
Archie's  news.  Imagine  the  rumpus  at  the  Pines. 
'What  in  the  world  did  you  do  that  for,  you  young 
donkey?'  I  couldn't  help  asking.  'Why,  because  I 
thought  you  would  stop  it  if  you  knew, '  he  said ;  '  I  was 
under  age.'  'Well,  then,  it's  illegal,'  I  said.  And  so 
it  is,  and  they  are  to  be  married  legally  in  church  as 
soon  as  possible.  The  first  marriage  was  at  a  regis- 
trar's office.  She's  an  orphan  without  a  penny  in  the 
world." 

"And  they  have  a  boy,"  Evelyn  thought  to  herself. 

"That  is  where  Archie's  money  has  been  going.  He 
is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  but  he's  not  overwise. 
He  picked  her  up  in  a  confectioner's  shop  at  Camford; 
she's  Swiss,  and  a  cousin  of  the  confectioner.  If  he 
would  but  have  waited,  the  fancy  might  have  died  out. 
Mother  would  never  have  consented  to  it.  A  Swiss  shop- 
girl, Evelyn!  They'd  scarcely  known  each  other  six 
months — young  idiots." 

"Your  brother  can  cite  a  good  precedent,  Richard. 
How  long  had  you  known  me  ? ' '  she  asked  with  an  odd 
little  bitter  smile. 

"Circumstances  were  different  —  and  exceptional. 
Yet  we  might  have  been  happier  if  we  had  known  each 
other  longer,"  he  added  rather  sadly. 

"Is  she  respectable  and  well-conducted?"  she  asked. 

"Heaven  knows.  According  to  Archie,  she's  perfect, 
but  has  a  slight — and  of  course  utterly  charming — 
accent.  Poor  boy!  It  really  is  a  trial  for  mother  and 
the  girls.  Adeline  vows  she  will  never  receive  her.  And 
Adeline  is  the  master  spirit  at  home." 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  have  this  new  and  serious 
worry,  Richard." 

"My  dear  girl,  don't  waste  pity  in  the  wrong  place. 


314  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Think  of  that  poor  young  donkey,  Archie,  beginning 
life  in  such  a  blundering  way — we  don't  know  wrhat  sort 
of  a  mess  he  may  have  made  of  it.  It  all  depends  on 
the  girl.  And  if  she's  good  for  anything  I  must  say  I 
pity  her.  She  is  in  apartments  at  Shackleton  alone,  with- 
out a  friend  near  her,  at  the  present  moment." 

Evelyn  was  for  going  to  her  forthwith,  but  Richard 
refused  to  hear  of  it,  and  the  matter  settled  itself  in 
the  course  of  time  by  the  exchange  of  formal  and  exceed- 
ingly uncomfortable  visits  between  the  young  wife  and 
the  ladies  of  her  husband's  family,  the  young  pair  hav- 
ing been  settled  meanwhile  in  a  small  house  in  the 
market  town,  to  a  branch  of  Belton's  in  which  Archie 
had  been  transferred  from  the  head  office ;  not  too  near 
the  rest  of  the  family,  but  near  enough  for  set  visits — a 
nearness  most  conducive  to  family  harmony.  These 
arrangements  were  not  effected  without  endless  journey- 
ings  and  long  and  laborious  consultations  and  persua- 
sions, and  involved  still  more  frequent  absences  from 
home  for  Richard,  with  intensified  solitude  for  Evelyn. 

So  when  November  closed  in  with  its  long,  dark 
nights  and  short,  gray  days,  and  frequent  sheetings  of 
fog  and  rain,  she  felt  as  if  Nature  had  conspired  with 
circumstance  to  hem  her  in  and  fence  her  round  with 
gloom  and  solitude ;  her  youth  withered  within  her ;  her 
heart  starved,  a  horror  of  the  thick  darkness  of  loneli- 
ness fell  upon  her  and  drove  her  for  refuge  into  the 
recesses  of  her  own  unsatisfied  emotions.  Yet  she  was 
always  relieved  by  Richard's  absence. 

There  was  no  one  during  that  dark  month  at  the 
Retreat;  she  went  rarely  to  the  vicarage;  Gerald  some- 
times rode  over,  and,  more  rarely,  induced  her  to  go  to 
the  Pines  by  a  roundabout  railway,  else  she  was  alone 
with  the  sere  woods,  the  moaning  sea,  the  storm-swept 
moorland,  and  the  long,  gray,  treeless  downs,  capped  by 
low  clouds  or  sheeted  in  rolling  mists.  She  walked  in  all 
weathers  attended  by  Rollo,  and  often  relieving  an  over- 
charged heart  by  reciting  poetry  to  roaring  winds  and 


IN   THE   DUSK  315 

raging  seas.  In  the  long  evenings  she  poured  out  the 
inarticulate  passion  so  long  restrained,  in  Chopin's  poign- 
ant nocturnes  and  dreamy  mazurkas,  or  sang  to  her 
firelit  solitude  songs  of  Schumann  and  Schubert,  dan- 
gerous remedies  for  these  terrible  heart  maladies,  sooth- 
ing for  the  moment,  but  insidiously  ministering  fuel  to 
the  flame. 

But  what  does  not  furnish  fuel  to  that  devouring 
flame,  that  terrible  necessity  for  loving  and  being  loved, 
which  ravages  the  lives  of  so  many  women?  Outcast 
winds  complaining  in  outer  darkness  round  the  warm 
house,  crying  with  human  voices  in  lonely  woods,  and 
whistling  over  barren  wastes;  the  sea-bird's  wail,  the 
plover's  cry,  the  sudden  rush  of  rain  on  roof  and  win- 
dow, and  above  all  the  many-toned,  multitudinous  yearn- 
ing of  the  ever-hungering  sea;  all  uttered  the  eternal 
lament  of  starving  hearts.  In  her  extremity,  Evelyn 
turned  to  the  only  source  of  balm  for  such  hurt  as  hers ; 
she  cried  out  to  her  Maker,  but  cried  with  the  angry  pain 
of  a  spoilt  child,  and  cried  fitfully  and  with  uncertain 
hope.  Yet  not  all  in  vain,  unheard  and  unanswered 
though  her  cry  might  seem  to  her;  for  such  cries  are 
often  forced  by  the  birth-pangs  of  a  better  life;  and 
the  prodigal  was  welcomed  while  he  was  yet  a  great 
way  off. 

In  those  days  a  strange  pity  for  Richard  woke  in  her 
from  the  very  depths  of  her  own  self-pity.  He  was  so 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  tempest  raging  by  his  side, 
his  trust  in  her  was  so  profound — as  profound,  she 
thought,  as  his  indifference.  He  might  as  well  expect 
the  oaken  eight-day  clock  in  the  little  hall  to  cherish 
disloyal  thoughts  as  her  stationary  domestic  self;  for 
was  she  not  but  another  piece  of  furniture,  a  somewhat 
more  costly  chattel? 

"You  are  losing  your  summer  brightness,  Evelyn," 
he  said  on  the  evening  of  a  very  dark  and  eventless 
day.  "This  is  no  place  for  you  in  winter.  It  is  most 
unlucky  that  I  should  have  to  be  away  so  much  in  the 


316  RICHARD    ROSNY 

dark  time.  How  would  you  like  to  go  to  Cannes  or 
Mentone?" 

"Oh,"  she  replied,  with  sudden  animation,  "it 
would  be  such  an  escape" — he  looked  up  in  quick  sur- 
prise, and  she  colored  deeply — "such  a  deliverance  from 
this  cold  grayness, "  she  added  quickly.  "Sunshine  is 
life.  But  how  could  it  be?" 

"Could  you  chaperone  Gwen  if  I  took  you  across 
and  settled  you  in  some  nice  Pension  ?  Or  Gerald  might 
escort  you,  or  he  might  stay  and  look  after  you.  Gwen 
is  perpetually  catching  cold  and  coughing,  and  Thorne 
says  she  wants  a  warm  winter.  You  might  go  after 
Christmas  and  come  home  for  the  wedding." 

"But  what  would  you  do  here  alone?" 

"Shut  the  cottage  and  use  my  rooms  at  the  head 
office.  I  don't  like  that  drawn  look  in  your  face  at  all." 

She  tried  hard  to  keep  back  the  tears  that  clouded 
her  eyes  in  the  unutterable  relief  of  going  away,  any- 
where— if  not  forever,  at  least  till  she  had  had  time 
to  become  used  to  this  corroding  misery  and  acquire  the 
courage  to  hide  it. 

"Then  you  can  buy  a  fine  frock  for  the  wedding  at 
Paris,"  he  added  cheerfully,  as  he  left  the  room  to 
smoke  his  pipe,  "and  take  the  shine  out  of  them  all." 

Still  the  days  went  heavily  on,  with  leaden-paced 
hours  lagging  most  wearily.  Evelyn  tried  to  fill  them 
with  homely  duties,  and  was  more  than  ever  punctilious 
in  carrying  out  Richard's  wishes.  The  thought  of  her 
own  death  was  sweet  to  her  in  those  days,  and  she 
noticed  her  sharpening  features  and  hollowed  eyes  with 
mournful  satisfaction. 

' '  The  days  are  sad ;  it  is  the  holy  tide, ' '  she  quoted 
to  herself  one  dark  December  day  as  she  sat  in  the  win- 
dow-seat and  wondered  at  the  cruelty  of  her  fate.  The 
window-panes  were  blurred  to  opacity  by  myriad  drops ; 
they  blotted  out  the  leaden  sky  and  the  rain-soaked  earth 
and  dark  line  of  undulating  down-ridge,  running  grim 
and  gray  out  to  sea  behind  curtains  of  slow,  rustling 


IN   THE   DUSK  317 

rain.  She  had  stayed  in  all  day,  too  listless  to  brave 
the  leaden-hued  atmosphere  and  steady,  gray  down- 
pour that  permeated  everything  in  its  quiet,  stubborn 
persistence,  melted  the  roads  to  an  oily  pulp,  soddened 
the  sere  leafage  to  a  black  and  rotten  mash,  and  took 
the  spring  and  stiffening  out  of  everything.  A  day 
in  which  grief  itself  turns  limp  and  resolution  dissolves 
like  April  snow.  No  wind  to  fight,  no  keen-fanged  cold 
to  endure,  no  sudden  rush  of  hail  or  driving  scud  to 
elude,  nothing  to  stir  the  Viking  blood,  or  rouse  the 
battle  instinct;  no  rolling  panorama  of  cloudland  to 
watch,  no  splendor  of  foaming  sea,  of  changing  light 
on  hill  and  plain  and  wind-bowed  wood;  nothing  but 
that  gray  persistence  of  fine,  soft  heart-chilling  wet, 
blotting  and  blurring  everything.  Every  bird  cowered 
in  its  covert;  every  beast  stood  patient,  with  drooping 
head  and  dripping  fell,  under  hedgerow  and  tree;  there 
was  no  sound  but  the  moist,  muffled  rustle  of  steady 
rain ;  not  a  plow  furrowed  the  purple  fallows ;  fields  and 
lanes  were  empty;  not  a  creature  came  to  the  cottage 
except  the  patient  postman. 

Once  a  wagon  creaked  slowly  by,  the  horses'  great 
hoofs  making  a  sucking  sound  as  they  gripped  and  let 
go  of  the  sodden  road,  their  manes  and  tails  beaded  and 
their  bodies  striped  with  wet,  and  their  heads  droop- 
ing in  patient  depression.  The  wagoners,  splashing 
heavily  by  them,  were  mud-spattered;  wet  sacks  over 
their  heads  and  shoulders  seemed  a  cumbrous  and  gro- 
tesque expedient  to  keep  out  the  penetrating  rain ;  Evelyn 
had  a  passing  spasm  of  sympathy  for  the  chill  discom- 
fort of  man  and  beast ;  they  emphasized  the  solitude  and 
silence  by  their  brief  passage  across  the  piece  of  road 
visible  through  the  blurred  window.  She  heard  the  clock 
tick  in  the  hall  and  a  clatter  of  crockery  and  voices  from 
the  kitchen  was  relief;  the  monotonous  pitter-patter 
of  fine  rain  on  the  grass  and  drip-drip  of  trees  and  spouts 
outside  vexed  her  nerves  beyond  bearing.  A  man's 
measured  step  on  the  gravel  roused  her  to  look  out  and 
21 


318  RICHARD   ROSNY 

see  the  corduroy-clad  figure  of  Seth  Barton,  his  head 
and  shoulders  shrouded  in  a  sack;  he  was  going  home 
to  his  tea,  and  had  been  doing  some  job  in  the  garden, 
she  remembered.  He  turned  and  looked  out  from  the 
pent-house  of  his  sack  to  see  the  warm  glow  of  the  win- 
dow and  herself  outlined  upon  it,  and  touched  his  hat 
as  he  went  by  with  a  wet  sound  in  his  dragging  steps. 
He  and  the  horses  and  wagoners  and  the  rain-drenched 
fields  and  trees,  the  heavy-headed  chrysanthemums 
dropping  with  wet,  and  sparrows  cowering  in  creepers 
with  fluffed-out  breasts,  and  the  leaden  sky  slowly  dis- 
tilling that  fine,  persistent  rain  without  break  or  gleam — 
all  seemed  to  embody  a  weary  patience  that  was  hardly 
resignation,  and  to  symbolize  the  unbreaking  dreariness 
of  her  life.  Nothing  could  alter  the  gray  monotony  of 
her  days  now — not  even  the  fierce  ache  of  tragedy. 
Always  her  life  would  be  like  this  dull  gray  day  of  rain 
and  mud,  waning  to  a  darkness  without  hope  of  stars, 
one  endless  endurance,  whence  all  passion,  even  that  of 
revolt,  had  died  out. 

A  great  wave  of  self-pity  rolled  over  her;  she  felt 
her  youth  and  beauty  waste  and  fade  sensibly.  Why 
was  she  thus  caged  and  cast  aside?  she  asked  with  impi- 
ous revolt  and  rushing  tears. 

The  fire  began  to  glow  warmly  in  the  dusk  and  lit 
the  room  with  fitful  radiance,  disclosing  traces  of  the 
day's  occupations.  Her  embroidery- frame  stood  to 
catch  the  light ;  a  mass  of  glowing  silks  and  gold  thread 
lay  near,  tossed  aside  in  sudden  weariness.  Yet  the 
satin  quilt  was  beautiful,  designed  by  an  artist  from 
her  own  suggestion;  the  execution  demanded  thought 
and  invention;  it  was  a  wedding  gift  for  Adeline;  she 
had  hoped  to  forget  herself  in  the  wreaths  of  oak-leaves 
and  acorns  and  twining  rose.  Vainly  had  Fluff  dis- 
played the  graces  of  his  furry  limbs  and  plumy  tail, 
madly  toying  with  the  silken  skeins  to  attract  her  atten- 
tion, and  now,  coiled  into  a  velvety  clew,  slept  happily 
with  a  comfortable  sound  between  purring  and  snoring. 


IN   THE   DUSK  319 

Music  was  scattered  on  the  open  piano ;  the  contents 
of  Mudie's  last  box  were  littered  about  with  half  a 
dozen  periodicals.  Evelyn  looked  drearily  at  the  cheer- 
ful disorder,  and  thought  of  the  interminable  evening 
before  her,  picturing  happy  homes  where  children 
stormed  in  from  schoolrooms  upon  this  vacant,  firelit 
hour,  and  danced  laughing  down  from  nurseries,  and 
where  fathers  and  husbands  came  in  from  work  or  pleas- 
ure to  forget  the  murk  and  mud  outside  in  the  glow  of 
their  cheerful  firesides.  Or  people  like  Seth  Barton  and 
the  wet  wagoners — it  was  quite  a  new  thing  for  Evelyn's 
imagination  to  admit  such  homespun  visitors — might  be 
enjoying  the  welcome  and  companionship  of  their  hum- 
bler hearths.  But  she  was  all  alone. 

Rhoda  presently  tripped  in  with  a  tea-tray  and  lin- 
gered in  the  hope  of  conversation,  but  was  disappointed. 

"Enough  to  give  anybody  cold  shivers  down  their 
backs,"  she  complained  in  the  kitchen.  "Give  me  sum- 
mer-time and  visitors." 

Evelyn  thought  with  her.  She  longed  desperately 
for  the  "green  felicity"  of  those  stripped  lime-trees 
massed  upon  the  wet  gray  gloom,  and  for  the  enchanted 
hours  of  their  summer  blossoming. 

To  know  the  change  and  feel  it 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

The  gloom  gathered,  the  last  lonely  cottage  on  the 
hillside  merged  in  the  darkness,  its  glowing  window 
quenched  by  a  curtain.  Her  head  drooped;  the  cheek 
she  laid  against  the  window  frame  was  wet;  her  heart 
ached  for  the  sound  of  a  voice  and  a  step  she  might 
never  hear  more.  Slow  steps  were  indeed  sounding  on 
the  wet  gravel,  but  it  was  only  poor  Seth  coming  back 
in  the  rainy  dark  to  work,  she  thought.  The  front  door 
was  softly  and  silently  opened,  and  as  softly  shut ;  then 
the  sudden  opening  of  the  parlor  door  made  her  turn 
quickly  and  spring  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of  irrepressible 
gladness  to  see,  full  in  the  firelight,  that  unforgotten 


320  RICHARD    ROSNY 

face,  the  eyes  shining,  the  hair  and  beard  thickly  beaded 
with  rain,  the  arms  outstretched,  and  to  hear  in  that 
deep,  full  voice,  the  one,  heart- wrung  word,  ' '  Evelyn ! ' ' 

A  precipice  toppled  in  the  fire;  flame  leaped  up  and 
glittered  upon  the  portraits  of  father  and  son  and  upon 
the  two  swords  crossed  beneath  them  on  the  wall;  the 
lion-headed  hilts,  the  rings  and  finishings  of  the  scab- 
bards burned  fitfully,  the  faces  of  the  two  sailors  looked 
out,  clear,  frank,  and  trustful,  straight  upon  those  two 
living  figures  meeting  in  the  light  and  shadow  of  the 
hearth.  But  Evelyn  saw  nothing  but  the  passion-fired 
face,  wet  with  rain,  heard  nothing  but  the  heart-music 
of  her  own  name,  felt  nothing  but  the  damp  freshness 
of  open  air,  breathing  round  him,  and  the  unutterable 
security,  repose,  and  gladness  of  being  fenced  and  shel- 
tered in  the  impregnable  stronghold  of  a  strong  man's 
deep  and  enduring  love. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  he  cried  with  fierce  restraint; 
"I  couldn't  keep  away.  I  couldn't  live  away.  But  I 
didn't  mean  to  come  in,  only  to  look,  to  look  once  on 
your  face,  Evelyn,  Evelyn." 

The  two  frank  sailor  faces  seemed  to  frown  in  the 
fitful  light;  the  lion-headed  hilts  and  scabbard-mount- 
ings glittered  fiercely;  the  light  suddenly  failed,  and 
the  two  silent  figures  were  lost  in  the  heavy  gloom. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE    DECEMBER    ROSE 

PITCHED  as  if  by  chance  as  in  a  cleft  of  intersecting 
uplands,  at  the  foot  of  the  long,  gray  ridge  of  Wim- 
bury  Down  and  above  the  steep  road  that  crossed  Black- 
ridge  Down,  a  heathy  upland,  smitten  and  scourged  by 
all  the  winds  of  heaven  and  all  the  storms  that  rush,  salt 
and  shrieking,  from  the  wild,  gray  channel,  roaring 
yonder  upon  an  unseen  shore,  and  standing  sheer  upon 
the  highroad  where  it  is  crossed  by  a  lane  that  winds 
deep  among  the  downs,  with  scarcely  a  habitation  in 
sight,  the  stone-built  Barley  Mow  seemed  to  have  small 
justification  for  existence,  except  as  a  retreat  from  the 
roar  and  tumult  of  human  life.  Yet  it  made  a  social 
center  and  focus  of  pleasure  and  good-fellowship  for 
many  lonely  miles  round.  The  leafless  sycamore  across 
the  road,  from  a  branch  of  which  the  weather-faded 
sign-board  creaked,  was  fringed  and  crusted  with  a  gray 
growth  of  lichen,  and  its  spreading  top  showed  irregular 
gaps,  whence  boughs  had  been  torn  by  tempest ;  lichens 
brocaded  the  steep  house-roof  and  the  bare  stone  front, 
and  the  windows,  whence  could  be  seen  a  wide  prospect 
of  wind-swept  slope,  scantily-wooded,  barren,  and  de- 
clining gently  to  the  gray  blue  channel,  were  heavily 
shuttered  against  storms  that  roared  and  howled  round 
its  strong  chimneys  and  steep-pitched  gables  on  autumn 
nights.  Long  days  and  longer  nights  went  by  when  the 
Barley  Mow  was  deserted  and  silent,  except  for  shriek- 
ing storms  and  furious  winds,  or  the  gentler  music  of 
birds  and  breezes  in  sunnier  hours.  But  on  one  Decem- 

321 


322  RICHARD    ROSNY 

ber  morning  the  remote  and  solitary  inn  had  a  sudden 
loss  of  quiet  and  accession  of  guests. 

All  winds  were  still  on  this  bright  morning,  that 
was  pungent  with  the  earthy  scent  of  hoar-frost;  all 
vistas  opening  along  the  down-windings  were  veiled  in 
purplish  haze,  and  all  outlines  softened  in  the  misty 
gold  of  December  sunshine.  Such  wintry  sunshine  is 
not  without  a  sadness  of  its  own;  its  pathos  is  like  the 
smile  of  a  brave  and  suffering  soul,  facing  adversity 
with  gallant  jests;  for  storms  and  rains  and  driving 
mists  are  too  recent  and  too  liable  to  return  on  the  bright- 
est midwinter  day  to  be  quite  out  of  mind,  and  the 
world  has  had  no  time  to  forget  the  tragedy  of  the  long 
winter  night  before  the  early  darkness  extinguishes  the 
last  glowing  embers  of  sunset. 

But  to-day  the  sun  lay  with  cheerful  warmth  on  the 
gabled  front  of  the  Barley  Mow;  it  sparkled  on  its 
frosted  windows  and  brought  warm  brown  flushes  upon 
copse  and  wooded  hill,  and  especially  upon  the  wide- 
armed  sycamore  that  held  the  painted  sign-board. 
Drawn  up  in  front  on  the  broad,  grass-edged  road,  were 
the  huntsman  and  whip,  red-coated  and  purple-faced, 
on  lovely  satin-skinned  horses,  standing  with  tossing 
heads  and  impatient  feet  in  a  sea  of  tawny  hounds, 
whose  eager,  questioning  faces  and  waving  sterns  glowed 
in  yellow  sunshine  and  were  set  off  by  the  green  of  turfy 
banks  and  road  edges. 

And  all  about  the  broad  bit  of  road  at  the  turn,  and 
all  along  the  crossing  roads  by  the  finger-post,  was  a 
brave  company  of  mounted  men  in  black  and  red  coats, 
and  a  goodly  assemblage  of  vehicles,  two-  and  four- 
wheeled,  shabby  and  smart,  and  a  little  sprinkling  of 
pedestrians  and  cyclists.  And  everywhere  a  cheery  hum 
of  voices  and  laughter,  a  stamping  and  neighing  of 
horses  and  clink  of  bits,  a  cracking  of  whips  and  whim- 
pering of  hounds,  with  scent  of  cigars,  trodden  grass, 
and  trampled  ground,  rotten  leaves,  and  horses  and  har- 
ness-leather, a  singular  but  inspiriting  bouquet  of  min- 


THE   DECEMBER   ROSE          323 

gled  odors  to  accompany  a  pleasant  and  inspiriting 
chorus  of  mingled  sounds. 

' '  No  sport  to-day, ' '  was  prophesied  from  the  vicarage 
wagonette,  which  slowly  climbed  the  road  winding  up 
the  heathy  flank  of  Blackridge  Down,  whence  all  the 
purply  brown  and  green  and  golden  landscape  could 
be  seen  rolling  away  to  the  channel,  or  climbing  with 
many  a  wooded  cleft  to  the  down  summits.  "Look  at 
the  rime  on  the  brambles." 

"Oh!  but  the  frost  is  giving  in  the  sun.  See  how 
it  drips  from  the  bracken  and  thorns.  Besides,  it's  the 
first  for  some  time." 

' '  Ah !  and  see, ' '  cried  Evelyn,  pointing  to  the  sandy 
bank,  ' '  a  rose,  a  white  rose  in  bloom. ' ' 

The  vicar  adjusted  his  pince-nez  to  look  at  the  brambly 
growth  alternating  with  bracken  and  furze  and  ling, 
among  which  were  bushes  of  the  small  burnet-leaved 
rose  that  loves  the  free,  fierce  air  and  sunshine  of  open 
wastes,  and  comes  when  May-blossom  fades. 

"I'll  gather  it  when  we  come  back,  Mrs.  Rosny. 
"Why,  it  would  be  Heine's  Haideroslein." 

"No,  it's  the  musk-rose,  and  always  white,  cream- 
white;  and  Heine's  rose  was  red  and  prickly." 

""What?  a  thornless  rose?  I  thought  that  was  a 
poetic  fiction,"  he  said,  jumping  up  to  the  driving  seat 
and  resuming  the  reins  Evelyn  had  held  while  he  walked 
up  the  hill.  "J?osa  spinosissima?  I  thought  that  meant 
as  thorny  as  can  be." 

"It  is  so  overdone  with  prickles  that  it  can't  prick, 
Herbert;  which  is  symbolical,"  Kathleen  said. 

"Of  one's  wife,  I  suppose.  What  do  you  make  it, 
Mrs.  Rosny  ?  Now,  then,  Sam ;  steady,  boy,  steady.  I  'm 
blest  if  old  Sam  doesn't  want  to  follow  the  hounds. 
Can 't  forget  his  youth.  "Whoa !  then,  steady  there,  good 
Sam;  steady,  my  beauty." 

But  the  joy  of  the  old  brave  days  of  youth,  when  he 
followed  the  chiming  pack  in  the  first  flight  over  field 
and  fallow,  kindled  in  the  old  horse's  heart,  for  he 


324  RICHARD   ROSNY 

heard  sounds  and  snuffed  scents  imperceptible  to  duller 
human  sense;  down  went  his  head,  up  went  his  heels 
with  a  reckless,  jubilant  whinny,  and  away  he  plunged 
with  a  coltish  ardor  unbecoming  to  his  sober  age,  and 
most  disturbing  to  unsportsmanlike  nerves  behind  him. 

"Not  that  I  have  any  serious  objection  to  following 
the  hounds,"  Kathleen  explained,  "but  I  never  cared  to 
go  across-country  in  a  wagonette." 

"Besides,"  Herbert  added,  "we  can't  see  either  the 
meet  or  the  throw-off  with  Sam  perpetually  dancing  on 
his  hind  legs." 

"Let  me  drive  him  back  for  you,"  Evelyn  proposed 
rather  eagerly,  with  a  flushed  face  that  had  no  connec- 
tion with  Sam's  elderly  antics,  but  was  rather  attribu- 
table to  something  her  quick  eye  had  caught  along  the 
lane  leading  off  Wimbury  Down.  "I  don't  think  I  care 
to  stand  about  watching  hounds  to-day;  the  meet  only 
makes  an  object  for  a  drive." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Rosny,  I  shouldn't  care  to  reckon  with 
your  husband  if  I  abandoned  you  to  a  single-handed 
struggle  all  the  way  back  with  Sam.  But  if  you  really 
don't  care — Whoa,  my  beauty — to  walk  on  to  the  Bar- 
ley Mow,  I  see  Jim  Cox  coming  along,  and  I'll  get  him 
to  take  Sam  quietly  home  and  drop  you  at  the  cottage." 

"Why  on  earth,"  Kathleen  asked  when,  the  disen- 
gaged stableman  having  been  entrusted  with  the  wagon- 
ette and  Sam  and  Evelyn,  they  were  walking  on  to  the 
Barley  Mow,  "was  Mrs.  Rosny  so  anxious  to  go  home 
all  of  a  sudden  ?  She  was  so  very  keen  to  see  the  throw- 
off  this  morning,  and  she's  never  keen  on  anything.  I 
never  shall  understand  Evelyn,  Herbert;  she's  so  capri- 
cious. One  never  knows  where  to  have  her." 

"She's  very  charming,"  he  said  rashly,  "and  if 
capricious — well,  mulier  est.  Somehow  you  two  never 
seem  to  hit  it  off  together.  Ah!  there's  Nancy  looking 
as  fresh  as  a  rose." 

There,  indeed,  beyond  the  hounds  and  huntsmen,  was 
Nancy,  standing,  bicycle  in  hand,  by  a  five-barred  gate 


THE   DECEMBER   ROSE  325 

on  the  left  of  the  inn  garden,  and  at  her  side,  likewise 
bicycle  in  hand,  his  eye-glasses  twinkling  in  the  sun, 
was  Basil  Mayne,  who  had  left  the  vicarage  gate  full 
five  minutes  after  the  wagonette  had  started,  and  had 
apparently  been  for  some  minutes  in  conversation  with 
Nancy.  She  had  cycled  from  Sandycombe,  and  the  ten- 
mile  run  might  have  been  accountable  for  the  fresh 
color  observed  by  Mr.  Mayne.  There,  too,  were  many 
other  familiar  faces  in  carriages  and  on  horses. 

"Good  old  Chesney,  with  a  sort  of  England-expects- 
every-man-to-do-his-duty  look  on  his  grim  old  mug," 
Herbert  muttered  to  Kathleen,  nodding  to  Lord  Randal, 
who  sat  humped  up  upon  a  quiet-looking  weight-carrier 
and  held  his  hunting  crop  in  a  martial,  not  to  say 
aggressive,  manner,  and  wore  an  old-fashioned  shabby 
red  coat  with  the  resolute  air  of  one  determined  to 
encourage  field  sports  as  becomes  a  fine  old  English  gen- 
tleman. His  wife  said  that  he  could  not  tell  a  fox  from 
a  hound,  or  a  horse's  tail  from  a  cow's.  Yet  he  was 
holding  a  knowing  discourse  with  a  young  farmer  upon 
a  beautiful  little  bay  mare,  thin-flanked,  with  long, 
speed-giving  hind  quarters  and  finely  finished  legs,  upon 
the  mare's  points  and  pedigree  and  her  chances  for  the 
cup  she  was  to  be  entered  for  in  the  spring  steeplechases. 
The  young  farmer  was  smiling  with  gentle  forbearance 
and  polite  attention.  Lady  Randal,  very  handsome  in 
her  well-cut  habit  and  businesslike  hat,  and  sitting  her 
brown  hunter  as  if  she  were  part  of  him,  was  every- 
where and  talking  to  everybody  upon  every  conceivable 
thing. 

Backing  out  from  a  space  behind  a  landau,  she 
nearly  backed  upon  Gerald  Belton,  handsome  and  lan- 
guid, red-coated  and  top-hatted  to  the  utmost  perfection, 
upon  a  young  horse,  rather  a  small  beast,  but  looking 
fit  for  anything.  Gerald  smiled  his  charming  smile  as 
he  edged  cleverly  away  and  raised  his  hat  from  his 
close-cut  hair  that  glittered  in  the  sun. 

' '  What  a  beauty ! ' '  she  said,  looking  lovingly  at  the 


326  RICHARD    ROSNY 

little  black  horse.  ''If  I  know  anything,  he'll  go  and 
he'll  stay.  He's  about  the  fittest  little  beast  I've  seen 
this  long  while,  Mr.  Belton." 

"He  isn't  a  bad  little  chap,  is  he?  Lent  me  for  the 
season  by  my  brother. ' ' 

"Your  brother?  Not  Mr.  Rosny?  Is  Saul  also 
among  the  prophets,  then?  I  had  not  suspected  him  of 
a  knowledge  of  horseflesh." 

"Dick  knows  most  things,  Lady  Randal.  He  knows 
me  better  than  to  give  me  Boy  Blue.  He  lends  him,  so 
that  I  can't  sell  him  or  bet  him  away." 

Boy  Blue  began  to  dance  delicately;  his  master  had 
seen  Annis  Rosny,  rose-cheeked,  and  trimly  dressed  in  a 
short  cycling  suit;  there  were  crossings  and  recrossings 
among  the  maze  of  horsemen,  in  the  course  of  which 
Boy  Blue  edged  toward  the  five-barred  gate,  and  Lady 
Randal  brought  up  by  another  friend  and  chatted  gaily 
away,  reflecting  all  the  time  on  the  fact  that  Rosny  had 
practically  given  this  valuable  hunter  to  his  stepbrother, 
while  his  wife  had  but  a  homely  pony  cart  to  drive  to 
the  market  town  in,  and  he  himself  went  afoot.  She 
thought,  too,  of  Adeline's  dowry  and  sumptuous  wed- 
ding preparations.  Gerald  was  destined  not  to  reach 
the  five-barred  gate  as  soon  as  he  could  have  wished. 
The  Maynes  had  approached  the  little  recess  that  sloped 
up  from  the  road  to  the  field  it  barred,  and  could  not 
well  be  ridden  over;  rather  they  had  to  be  smiled  at 
and  congratulated  upon  the  weather  and  complimented 
upon  their  energy  and  consulted  upon  the  slightness  of 
the  rapidly  exhaling  frost;  and,  while  this  desolating 
social  rite  was  proceeding,  another  hunter  rode  up  at 
right  angles  to  Boy  Blue,  with  something  to  say  to 
everybody. 

This  cavalier,  who  dismounted  at  the  gate,  was  on 
a  tall,  long-legged  iron-gray  with  a  soft  and  gentle  eye 
and  very  fine  head;  he  himself  looked  businesslike  in  a 
black  coat  and  the  usual  finishings.  In  his  coat,  con- 
spicuous in  the  sunshine,  was  a  creamy-white  wild  rose 


THE   DECEMBER   ROSE          327 

with  a  golden  center,  at  sight  of  which  Kathleen  and 
Annis  both  exclaimed: 

"Did  you  get  it  on  Blackridge  Down,  Ronald?  We 
saw  one  as  we  came  up  the  hill, ' '  Kitty  asked.  ' '  Or  does 
it  rain  December  roses  to-day?" 

"And  I  flattered  myself  it  was  a  rara  avis,  a  black 
swan  of  flowers,  Kitty.  Don't  say  that  you've  seen  one 
already,  Miss  Rosny,  I  implore  you." 

"You  find  them  now  and  again  in  late  autumn," 
Annis  said.  "Has  it  any  scent,  Captain  Musgrave?" 

' '  Try  it ;  do  me  the  honor  to  wear  it, ' '  he  said,  hand- 
ing it  to  her.  "Mayn't  I  fix  it  in  your  coat?  'The  sweet 
musk-rose,  the  Mid-May's  eldest  child,'  ought  to  be 
honored. ' ' 

"A  pity  to  disturb  it,"  she  replied,  fixing  it  in  her 
sage-green  coat  to  prevent  his  doing  so.  "Is  that  big 
gray  of  yours  the  one  you  tumbled  off  the  other  day?" 

"What  an  unkind  way  of  putting  it?  People  don't 
tumble  off  unless  they  are  duffers.  We  came  a  cropper 
together,  the  gray  and  I,  as  we  were  negotiating  a  bull- 
finch. We  don't  quite  know  how,  but  we  suddenly  found 
ourselves  all  mixed  up  together  in  a  plowed  field  on  the 
other  side.  Two  valuable  lives,  human  and  equine,  were 
very  near  being  extinguished  on  that  occasion,  and  yet 
you  smile  at  the  recital." 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  much  damaged,"  growled 
Basil  Mayne,  the  expression  of  whose  usually  cheerful 
and  urbane  countenance  was  gradually  becoming  fiend- 
ish in  its  malignity.  The  transfer  of  a  harmless  wild 
flower  from  one  person's  coat  to  another's  seemed  to 
have  an  injurious  effect  upon  his  nervous  system,  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  triviality  of  the  incident,  while  the 
quality  of  his  voice  expressed  liveliest  dissatisfaction 
with  the  absence  of  perceptible  damage  to  Captain  Mus- 
grave's  person.  What  with  the  withering  scorn  and  dis- 
gust in  Mr.  Mayne 's  eyes,  and  the  wrath  and  fury  in 
those  of  Gerald,  who  was  also  a  close  and  disgusted 
observer  of  these  petty  details,  it  was  a  marvel  that 


328  RICHARD   ROSNY 

either  the  rose  or  its  debonair  giver  escaped  shriveling 
to  dust  beneath  that  scathing  double  glare,  of  which 
Captain  Musgrave  himself  was  agreeably  conscious. 

"Very  little  damage,"  he  said,  cheerfully  smiling, 
but  not  on  the  eye-glasses.  "One  soon  discovers  which 
are  one's  own  legs,  and  which  one's  horses  on  such  occa- 
sions. The  gray  and  I  look  forward  to  many  another 
spill  together,  Miss  Rosny.  You  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  one  to-day.  There  will  be  little  other  sport,  I 
fear,  to  judge  by  the  state  of  the  atmosphere." 

"Yet  you  took  the  trouble  to  come  out?" 

"And  have  been  amply  rewarded.  One  likes  to 
meet — ah — friends,  especially  sometimes.  Are  you  stay- 
ing at  the  vicarage?" 

"Ass!"  muttered  Basil. 

"Beast!"  growled  Gerald,  fretting  Boy  Blue  till  he 
backed  on  a  hound  and  made  him  yelp  and  the  hunts- 
man say  unpleasant  things. 

"That's  good  news,"  Captain  Musgrave  said,  upon 
an  affirmative  reply.  "Even  deserts  may  smile — 
"And  bounders  grin  like  Cheshire  cats,"  Basil  Mayiie 
muttered  savagely — "and  the  wilderness  has  already 
blossomed  with  and  like  the  rose.  I  hope  you'll  stay 
over  the  New  Year.  My  sister  is  meditating  some  big 
function — "  "Why  doesn't  Mayne  kick  the  beast?" 
Gerald  wondered — "and  I'm  going  to  persuade  my 
cousin  to  have  a  carpet-dance  one  night.  Shall  we  join 
forces  to  move  on,  Miss  Rosny?" 

"When  Kitty  asks  us  will  be  time  enough,"  Nancy 
said,  turning  to  Kathleen,  who  was  still  standing  near, 
an  amused  spectator  of  the  various  life  gathered  in  front 
of  the  inn.  ' '  Did  you  walk  all  the  way,  Kitten  ?  Ah ! 
there's  Gerald.  How  do  you  like  Boy  Blue,  Gerald?" 

"How  are  you,  Musgrave?"  Herbert  said,  coming 
back  from  a  round  of  visits  to  mounted  and  carriage 
people.  "They're  going  to  try  the  spinney  by  the  mill. 
Shall  we  follow,  Kit,  or  stay  here  and  watch?" 

Ronald  was  on  the  gray  in  a  trice,  abreast  with  Ger- 


THE   DECEMBER   ROSE          329 

aid  on  Boy  Blue,  and  genially  pleased  with  his  company, 
to  all  appearances;  the  huntsman  touched  his  cap  and 
moved  off  with  the  bustling  pack ;  led  horses  were  mount- 
ed, friendly  groups  dissolved,  horsemen  streamed  after 
the  hounds,  vehicles  followed,  and  foot  and  cycle  people 
mixed  in  among  the  straggling,  thinning  train  that 
flowed  along  the  country  lane  between  gorse  and  bracken- 
grown  hedges  or  over  the  open  down  beyond  them,  a 
bright  and  cheery  sight  in  the  wintry  sunshine,  with 
crunch  of  hoof  and  wheel,  crack  of  whip,  and  clink  of 
bit  and  bridle,  and  scent  of  crushed  turf  and  trampled 
ground.  Now  a  horse  whinnied,  a  hound  yelped,  and  all 
the  dogs  within  hearing  barked  in  answer,  or  a  man's 
voice  shouted  an  order  or  a  question  above  the  general 
hum;  now  came  the  thud  of  cantering  horses  on  the 
turf;  now  there  was  a  general  trotting  of  steeds  along 
the  lane,  and  stray  notes  from  the  huntsman's  horn  in 
the  distance;  and  now  the  roads  meeting  by  the  Barley 
Mow  were  empty  and  silent,  swept  bare  of  the  gay 
groups  that  had  swarmed  there  five  minutes  before. 

"Let  us  go  back  over  Blackridge  Down,"  Herbert 
said  after  a  few  minutes'  chat  with  the  landlord  and  a 
good  morning  to  the  buxom  wife,  who  was  busy  washing 
glasses  and  mugs  in  the  bar.  "If  they  find  in  the  spin- 
ney, we  may  see  them  break  away.  And  I  must  call  at 
the  corner  cottage — Cox's  wife  is  ill." 

The  day  was  clouding  over  before  a  southwest  breeze 
that  boded  rain;  robins  sang,  a  storm-cock  was  shout- 
ing from  the  tallest  tree  he  could  find  in  a  sheltered 
hollow  by  a  farm;  everything  looked  a  warm  purply 
brown,  touched  with  green  and  shading  into  pale  indigo 
in  the  distance;  the  hoar-frost  was  gone,  except  in  hol- 
lows and  on  the  north  side  of  hedges.  The  note  of  a 
horn  and  sudden  confused  sounds  of  hounds  giving 
tongue  occasionally  rose  upon  the  faint  breeze ;  and  when 
they  began  to  descend  the  steep  road  over  Blackridge 
Down  they  could  see  the  spinney  in  the  lower  land  a 
mile  away,  and  the  hunt  dotted  about  a  gray  stubble 


330  RICHARD    ROSNY 

and  a  green  meadow,  looking  as  small  as  toy  soldiers; 
between  the  lane  hedges  carriages  could  be  seen. 

''I  can  just  make  out  Mrs.  Belton  and  the  girls," 
Kathleen  said,  using  the  field-glasses,  "in  a  landau; 
Adeline  is  in  chinchilla;  Molly  in  blue  fox.  Did  you 
see  Gerald's  lovely  little  black  horse?" 

"Who  didn't,  Kit?  I  can't  help  wondering  at 
Rosny's  resolution  in  living  so  very  modestly.  He  must 
be  rolling  in  riches,  giving  young  Belton  that  valuable 
hunter,  when  his  wife  has  nothing  but  that  little  scrub 
of  a  pony.  Of  course,  we  know  that  he  spends  fortunes 
on  these  different  philanthropic  enterprises,  but  it's 
scarcely  charity  to  give  an  extravagant  young  fellow, 
who  is  always  head  over  ears  in  debt,  an  extra,  unneces- 
sary horse." 

"Only  lent,  perhaps,  to  prevent  more  buying.  And 
Richard  may  not  have  a  large  share  in  the  firm.  Gerald 's 
father  was  a  partner,  was  he  not?" 

' '  They  say  that  Rosny  is  the  firm,  and  that  old  Belton 
was  long  out  of  it  and  penniless  and  in  debt  when  he 
died.  The  firm  was  going  to  the  dogs  till  Rosny  put 
his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  pulled  it  round  again  and 
made  a  new  thing  of  it.  You  must  surely  have  known 
that,  Kitty." 

' '  I  know  far  too  much  about  it,  Herbert,  dear,  to  be 
able  to  discuss  it,"  she  said,  reddening.  "But  I  think 
I  may  tell  you  without  breaking  faith,  that  Richard 
Rosny  has  some  Quixotic  notion  of  holding  his  partner- 
ship in  trust  for  his  stepfather's  children.  No  doubt 
Evelyn  fully  understands,  though  it  must  come  hard  to 
her  at  times.  Do  you  know,  Herbert,  it  is  extremely 
awkward  to  come  into  possession  of  other  people's 
secrets.  One  is  always  carrying  contraband  facts  hid- 
den in  one's  mental  baggage." 

"I'm  afraid,  Kit,  that  you  have  come  into  posses- 
sion of  a  sad  gossip  by  way  of  a  husband.  But  don't 
let  me  worm  anything  out  of  you.  The  fact  is,  as  you 
know,  I  am  much  interested  in  this  man,  and  have  a 


THE   DECEMBER   ROSE          331 

real  liking  for  him  and  can't  help  speculating  on  his 
motives,  which  must  be  unusual.  And  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  Kitten,  I  always  forget  that  old  boy  and  girl 
business  of  yours — one  is  not  very  keen  on  that  kind 
of  thing,  don't  you  know — and  so  I  forget  that  it  may 
have  involved  more  knowledge  of  his  affairs  than  he 
would  wish  others  to  have." 

' '  It  does,  indeed, ' '  she  sighed.  ' '  I  happened  to  come 
into  his  life  just  at  the  meeting  and  parting  of  the  ways. 
Poor,  poor  fellow !  So  I  know  too  much  and  am  always 
afraid  of  letting  it  out." 

"He  seems  to  have  no  such  fear.  He  is  always  at 
ease  and  unguarded  with  you.  Kit,  he  told  me  the  other 
day  that  the  vicarage  was  his  land  of  Beulah.  I  don't 
think  he's  so  very  much  to  be  pitied,  all  things  con- 
sidered. ' ' 

' '  Poor  Richard !  I  used  to  be  afraid  of  him.  But  I 
have  nothing  but  pity  for  him  now.  You,  too,  would 
pity  him,  Herbert,  if  you  knew  the  tragedy  of  his 
life." 

"Tragedy?  The  expression  is  strong,  Kit.  Perhaps 
you  don't  quite  realize  it.  I  should  rate  Eosny  a  happy 
man,  as  men  go,  and  place  all  his  griefs  in  the  past. 
The  man  has  known  suffering — who  has  not? — but  he 
has  mastered  it  and  entered  into  peace.  He  has  a  happy 
home.  Half  the  men  and  all  the  boys  in  the  parish 
worship  that  man.  He  is  more  trusted  and  looked  up 
to  than  any  man  in  the  county,  aye,  and  in  half  a 
dozen,  always  being  asked  to  fill  some  important  posi- 
tion or  advise  upon  some  vital  point.  Isn't  that  happi- 
ness to  know  oneself  valued  and  trusted?" 

They  were  leaning  over  a  gate,  watching  the  spin- 
ney in  which  the  pack  had  disappeared.  From  the  pur- 
ple furrows  of  a  field  in  the  foreground  a  flock  of  plover 
rose  suddenly,  their  wings  flashing  silver  against  the 
deep  brown  of  a  coppice ;  the  thrush  was  silent  now,  but 
the  cry  of  a  gull  was  heard. 

"What    is    tragedy?"    Kathleen    asked    presently. 


332  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"What  should  you  say  was  the  deepest  of  all  human 
griefs,  Herbert?" 

"Oh,  that  has  been  said  often,  and  is  eternally  true, 
and  we  have  all  in  some  degree  known  it,"  he  replied; 
"the  sorrow  of  sorrows  is  having  sinned." 

The  trot  of  a  horse,  long  heard  on  the  road,  checked 
behind  them  with  the  call  of  the  rider:  "Seen  the 
hounds  ? ' '  and  they  turned  to  see,  on  his  serviceable  bay, 
the  spare,  strong  figure  of  Dr.  Thorne,  now  verging  upon 
his  fourth  decade.  Hardly  had  the  question  been  an- 
swered and  the  doctor  leaped  the  hedge,  when  Kath- 
leen, looking  through  the  glasses,  saw  a  small,  dark 
creature  stealing  out  of  the  spinney  and  making  for 
the  open. 

"Oh,  look,  Herbert,  there's  a  poor,  lost  dog.  He 
doesn't  know  where  the  others  are,"  she  exclaimed, 
when,  to  her  amazement,  the  vicar  of  the  parish  bound- 
ed like  a  ball  to  the  top  of  the  gate,  and,  taking  off  his 
hat  and  waving  it  like  a  maniac,  gave  utterance  to  the 
most  unearthly  yell  ever  heard.  The  doctor  took  it  up, 
as  he  rode;  it  was  prolonged  by  some  laborers  hedging 
farther  on,  and  echoed  in  a  chorus  from  the  spinney; 
then  a  hound  gave  tongue,  another  and  another,  and 
soon  the  wild  music  of  the  whole  pack  broke  out  with 
pulse-quickening  tumult,  and  hound  after  hound  tum- 
bled out  of  the  spinney,  and  after  the  long,  dark  crea- 
ture flying  over  the  open,  till  the  pale  stubble  field  was 
overspread  by  a  tawny  yellow  and  white  fan,  succeeded 
by  a  wider  and  darker  fan  of  horsemen  coming  round 
from  the  various  directions  in  which  they  had  waited. 
The  tawny  yellow  stream  poured  like  liquid  over  the 
hedge  into  a  gray  brown  fallow  beyond,  and  the  whole 
hunt,  a  moving  mass  of  black  and  brown,  vividly  dotted 
with  scarlet  and  interpenetrated  with  white,  flashed 
across  the  country,  not  unlike  a  flock  of  birds  of  passage 
in  a  wedge-like  formation,  spreading  out  in  a  thinning 
fan  behind. 

"Lady  Randal  is  in  the  first  flight.     Well  done!" 


THE   DECEMBER   ROSE          333 

Herbert  cried.  "  George  Chesney  is  well  to  the  front. 
His  mother's  own  son — not  bad  for  ten  years  on  a  rough 
little  pony.  Ronald  is  down.  What  will  Nancy  say, 
Kit?  Up  again  and  off  like  a  shot.  Who's  that  girl 
on  the  gray?  Do  you  see  Gerald  Belton?  He  went 
over  like  a  bird.  Look  at  poor  old  Chesney  creeping 
round  to  find  a  gate.  There's  Guy  Belton  in  the  ruck; 
the  boy  rides  well.  There  are  our  two  cyclists  pulling 
their  wheels  through  a  gap.  Thome  is  pounding  along 
like  a  true  Briton.  How  the  bay  sails  over  the  fences! 
Another  spill.  Well,  Kitten,  we're  in  for  all  the  fun 
of  the  fair  this  time." 

"And  my  'poor,  lost  dog,'  "  she  said,  smiling  and 
well  pleased  with  the  spectacle  that  flashed  across  the 
champaign  and  disappeared,  leaving  the  field  stiller,  the 
hills  lonelier,  and  the  woods  more  dreamlike  than  before. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

THE    STOKM 

THE  high  ridge  of  Wimbury  Down  ended  seaward 
in  an  abrupt  and  precipitous  fall  of  some  three  hundred 
feet  to  a  grassy  level,  bestrewn  with  fallen  rocks  and 
sheltered  from  the  north  by  the  grassy  cliff  crowned 
with  weathered  limestone  crag  that  was  drawn  bold  and 
sharp  against  the  sky.  This  broken  level,  itself  on  the 
summit  of  cliffs  descending  less  abruptly  to  a  rocky 
shore  on  which  the  sea  broke  with  thunderous  roar  in 
stillest  summer  weather,  was  a  sunny  and  peaceful  place 
enjoying  a  climate  of  its  own,  and  much  clothed,  espe- 
cially between  projecting  spurs  of  the  upper  cliff,  with 
woods  feathering  away  on  the  steep  to  mere  brush,  bram- 
ble, and  ivy,  that  sometimes  ran  up  even  to  the  over- 
beetling  crags,  where  ravens  built  and  hawks,  and  more 
rarely  a  falcon,  had  their  homes. 

Here  on  one  wild  December  day,  when  the  hoarse 
roar  and  harsh  scream  of  the  ground  swell  made  a  con- 
tinuous fundamental  bass  to  all  other  sounds;  when  the 
wind,  striking  the  tide  sideways,  crushed  the  long  rollers 
one  over  the  other  upon  themselves  and  tore  their  crests 
into  white  haze  of  blinding  spindrift,  and  whistled  shrill 
and  sharp  over  the  shuddering  turf  above  the  crag,  and 
howled  across  the  open  country  and  smote  tree-tops 
together  and  tore  them  apart  with  savage  shrieks  and 
cruel  mirth  amid  grinding  branches  and  twisting  trunks ; 
here  in  the  mossy  heart  of  a  wooded  hollow  there  was 
peace  and  warmth,  and  all  the  tumult  of  wailing  wind 
and  beaten  surge  and  roaring  woodland  was  subdued 
and  blended  to  a  deep  majestic  organ  symphony,  with 
334 


THE    STORM  335 

trumpet  stop  and  bourdon  alternatively  prevailing. 
Hence,  through  thinning  trunks  and  boughs  to  the  south 
could  be  caught  a  glimpse  of  foam-ridged  sea,  empty  of 
mast  and  sail;  here  a  small  wren,  climbing  through  the 
low  brush  feathering  the  cliff  flank,  raised  a  dispropor- 
tionately powerful  strain  of  shrill,  sweet  song  from  time 
to  time,  and  not  far,  the  waters  of  a  clear  spring  fell 
musically  and  were  caught  in  a  rude  stone  basin;  the 
nearest  house  was  hidden  from  sight. 

Here,  on  that  wild  afternoon,  when  a  sullen  glow 
under  the  gray  pall  of  cloud  over  the  southwest  sea 
gave  hint  of  closing  day,  Evelyn  Rosny  slowly  paced 
the  mossy  ground  under  wind-rocked  trees  with  glowing 
cheek  and  sparkling  eye.  But  not  alone.  Ronald  kept 
even  step  with  her,  bending  toward  her  and  speaking 
with  subdued  and  earnest  fervor. 

"Let  us  do  away  with  cant  and  humbug,"  he  was 
saying.  "This  can  not  go  on;  we  have  to  face  a  situa- 
tion that  was  not  of  our  making.  Having  given  me  so 
much,  Evelyn,  you  are  bound  to  give  me  more.  You 
can't  play  fast  and  loose  with  a  man  who  loves  you  with 
all  his  soul  and  who  knows  his  love  returned." 

"Ah!  but  no.  That  is  not  fair.  You  surprised  my 
secret,  else  you  would  never  have  known,  Ronald.  Oh! 
I  was  fighting  it  down,  fighting  it,  well " 

"But  why  fight?  Who  can  fight  against  Fate?  It 
was  a  losing  battle  from  the  first.  You  surrendered  once 
for  all  in  that  blessed  firelight  hour.  You  can  not  go 
back.  Doubtless  I  was  wrong.  I  ought  not  to  have 
come.  Heaven  knows,  I  tried  to  stay  away.  But  I 
came,  dearest.  Something  stronger  than  self,  stronger 
than  wTill  or  wisdom  or  any  earthly  consideration,  aye, 
and  stronger  than  honor  itself,  drew  me.  I  came,  Eve- 
lyn, I  came.  Life  can  never  be  the  same  again ;  we  can 
not  alter  facts.  That  moment  binds  us  both ;  honor  and 
right  sailed  into  new  latitudes  that  evening.  We  owe 
ourselves  to  each  other  henceforth.  And  what  is  mar- 
riage in  its  essence  ?  Is  it — oh,  Heaven ! — a  legal  slavery, 


336  RICHARD   ROSNY 

a  bitter  bond  of  estranged  and  incompatible  natures, 
formally  rendering  exacted  tithe  of  miserable,  loveless 
intercourse?  Is  it  two  antipathetic  hearts  and  minds 
chained  by  custom  and  convention  to  sit  at  the  same 
hearth,  to  eat  the  same  bread,  to  share — oh,  last  degra- 
dation— to  live  a  loveless  life  that  is  a  daily  and  hourly 
renewed  lie,  a  long  shame,  a  perpetual  desolation,  an 
abnegation  of  all  that  is  vital,  natural,  real,  and  uplift- 
ing? To  feel  indifference  crystallizing  to  repugnance, 
to  active  dislikes,  to  bitter  hatred,  wrhile  the  tribute- 
money  of  outward  observance  is  daily  extorted  and 
unwillingly  rendered?  Is  that  holy  matrimony,  Eve- 
lyn? Can  you  decline  upon  that,  you  that  are  you,  my 
you?  No,  dearest;  this  degradation  must  not  go  on; 
you  can  not  continue  a  life  that  has  become  a  shame 
and  a  lie." 

"Ah!  but  my  friend,  to  wrong  him,  your  friend! 
No ;  no.  It  must  be  good-by.  It  must  indeed. ' ' 

"It  is  too  late  for  good-by.  Our  lives  have  min- 
gled too  closely,  Evelyn.  And  as  for  wronging  him — 
will  he  care  ?  Does  he  love  you  ?  Honor  ?  Oh,  yes,  you 
are  right.  There  is  such  a  thing.  His  will  be  safe 
enough.  He  will  take  the  case  before  the  court ;  it  will 
be  undefended;  he  will  be  free;  our  marriage  will  be 
legal " 

' '  No,  no,  not  that, ' '  she  cried,  trembling,  and  shrink- 
ing from  him.  "I  never  thought — I  could  not 

' '  Silly  child !  So  bound  to  convention !  You  would 
wreck  both  our  lives  for  a  prejudice.  This  pettiness 
is  unworthy  of  you.  Come,  sit  here  by  the  spring  on 
this  rock — so.  Listen;  you  have  made  a  mistake,  your 
marriage  is  loveless " 

"No,' no;  I  loved  him;  I  love  him  still.  I  will  be 
true." 

' '  You  can  not.  You  can  not  love  two  men  at  the 
same  time,"  he  replied,  with  sudden  pallor.  "You  can 
not  be  true  to  two.  You  can  best  serve  him  by  setting 
him  free.  Honor  and  truth  are  not  in  such  a  marriage 


THE   STORM  337 

as  yours — they  can  not  be.  Honor  and  truth  are  only  in 
true  marriage,  in  the  union  of  hearts  and  souls.  What 
are  you  to  him?  Does  he  really  know  you?  Has  he 
ever  cared  to  know  you?  Shall  I  ever  forget  that  first 
night — his  neglect,  your  isolation,  my  pity,  that  grew 
to  love?  He  doesn't  attempt  to  take  care  of  you;  he 
doesn't  suspect,  doesn't  care  enough  to  suspect.  How 
many  evenings  did  he  spend  at  home  last  week?  How 
much  do  you  occupy  of  his  leisure  day — his  Sunday  ? 
You  saw  him,  I  suppose,  at  breakfast  this  morning.  You 
saw  him  in  the  choir,  surpliced  and  singing,  at  church. 
He  walked  home  with  his  cousin;  you  followed  with 
me.  He  rose  before  luncheon  was  over  to  go  to  his  boys. 
He  will  be  overlooking  their  footer  in  the  field  and  their 
games  in  the  club-shed  till  dark;  or  he  will  go  to  the 
village  club  and  see  the  older  men.  Perhaps  he  will  come 
home  to  tea.  He  will  be  busy  till  evensong.  After  that 
he  will  practise  in  the  choir  or  go  to  his  boys '  club.  Then 
home  to  sleep  in  his  chair.  Is  that  a  true  picture,  and 
is  it  a  picture  of  what  ought  to  be?  No,  Evelyn,  you 
have  no  share  in  his  life,  or  he  in  yours.  Your  union 
is  one  long  iniquity  and  degradation.  You  must  break 
away  from  it.  You  were  made  for  better  things.  Honor 
and  love  and  happiness  await  you — my  life,  my  happi- 
ness, my  love,  my  hope — all  are  in  your  white,  white 
hands,  Evelyn,  Evelyn " 

"Hush!  You  must  not  say,  must  not  think  such 
things, ' '  she  broke  in,  shaking  and  striving  to  push  away 
with  trembling  hands  the  figure  kneeling  before  her  and 
kissing  her  hands.  "Oh,  I  have  been  weak  and  wicked, 
indeed,  I  did  not  think — I  could  not  help —  Oh,  hush! 
what  is  that?" 

She  sprang  up,  suspicion,  shame,  and  terror  written 
on  her  tear-wet  face,  as  the  sullen  boom  of  a  gun  pierced 
the  wild  storm-symphony. 

"It  comes  from  the  sea — a  ship  in  distress,"  he  said, 
approaching  her  with  a  look  that  made  her  shiver  and 
turn  pale.  "Another?  She's  firing  minute-guns.  An 


338  RICHARD   ROSNY 

awful  sea,  and  the  wind  dead  ashore.  Look,  Evelyn, 
here  is  another  ship  in  distress  before  you ;  it  is  a  man 's 
life.  Will  you  see  her  go  down?  Will  you  sail  on  your 
course  and  never  lend  a  hand  to  save?  Will  you  not 
even  stand  by  and  at  least  fling  out  one  life-line?" 

"Spare  me,  Ronald.  Leave  me  to  my  duty,"  she 
sobbed,  shrinking  more  and  more,  while  he  as  steadily 
drew  nearer,  with  that  terrible  mastery  in  his  dark  and 
burning  gaze  and  that  terrible  passion  of  thwarted  ten- 
derness grown  fierce  in  the  voice  that  vibrated  through 
and  through  her  and  held  her  in  a  magnetism  that  made 
her  helpless  with  fear. 

' '  Duty ! "  he  echoed  in  bitter  scorn.  ' '  Duty  to  whom  ? 
Have  you  no  duty  to  me?  Have  I  no  claim  to  you, 
Evelyn  ?  Are  you  so  selfish  ?  Must  my  heart  bleed  and 
break  in  its  despair  that  you  may  look  well  in  the  eyes 
of  the  conventional,  the  petty,  the  bourgeois?  Must  my 
life  be  ruined  that  you  may  conform  to  the  standard 
of  the  narrow-minded,  the  unthinking,  the  prudish,  the 
vulgar?  Duty!  Dearest,  for  my  sake,  dare  to  be  true 
to  a  more  real  standard.  Oh,  to  save  me,  cast  away  the 
falsities  of  custom,  the  impurities  of  the  worldly  and 
prudish.  Can  you  ever  have  loved,  Evelyn?  Are  you 
so  cold,  so  hard,  so  cruel?" 

' '  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  go ! "  she  cried,  starting  up 
as  Rollo  came  bounding  through  the  trees.  "It  is 
Nancy."  (She  took  the  dog.)  "I'll  go  out  by  the  coast- 
guard. ' ' 

He  made  but  one  bound  and  slipped  quickly  behind 
a  rock  into  some  brushwood.  She  went  slowly  forward 
toward  Rollo,  with  caressing  words,  dried  and  veiled  her 
face,  and,  after  stopping  to  stroke  the  dog,  passed  with 
it  out  of  the  wood  into  the  open.  He  kept  still  in  his 
lair,  listening  through  the  softened  roar  of  the  wind 
and  sea,  but  hearing  nothing  more  than  the  storm,  the 
musical  plash  of  the  spring  in  its  basin,  the  continued 
boom  of  guns  and  the  answering  signal  from  the  coast- 
guard station.  Five  full  minutes  he  waited,  savage  at 


THE    STORM  339 

the  interruption,  mad  with  baffled  passion,  furious  at 
the  humiliation  of  these  furtive  meetings ;  yet  interested 
in  the  fate  of  the  distressed  vessel  tossed  upon  that 
a\vful  sea  and  driven,  as  he  gathered  from  the  sound  of 
the  guns,  full  upon  that  deadly  coast.  Then  he  ventured 
cautiously  from  his  hiding-place,  calm  and  self-pos- 
sessed, with  no  trace  of  the  agitation  and  fury  that  had 
so  recently  blazed  in  his  face  and  made  his  breath  come 
hot  and  quick  in  suffocating  gusts,  and,  going  up  to  the 
mossy  basin  in  which  the  spring-water  trickled,  took 
some  in  his  curved  hand  and  drank. 

Then,  lighting  a  pipe  and  whistling  softly,  he 
strolled  out  into  the  open  in  the  direction  taken  by 
Evelyn,  to  be  met  by  such  a  furious  buffet  of  wind  round 
the  first  turn  of  the  cliff-flank  as  sent  the  tobacco  out  of 
his  pipe  and  his  hat  from  his  head.  The  gale  was  increas- 
ing ;  the  breakers  were  pale  green  walls,  thirty  and  forty 
feet  high,  with  shattered  white  crests  spraying  and  fly- 
ing in  every  direction;  the  spindrift  was  now  a  mealy 
mist  veiling  the  whole  of  the  sea  and  floating  far  inland. 
Rolling  helplessly  in  a  deep  hollow  between  the  great, 
green,  moving  hills,  that  seemed  to  spring  like  live  things 
out  of  the  very  depths  of  the  sea,  was  a  broken-masted 
vessel,  tossed  and  tumbled  and  toyed  with  by  the  mad 
waves,  like  a  cork  in  a  rain-flooded  gutter.  Now  she 
was  dashed  by  one  huge  roller  to  the  summit  of  another, 
on  which  she  toppled  a  moment  before  crashing  with 
it  into  the  trough  of  another. 

It  hurt  Ronald  to  see  her  so  mercilessly  beaten  and 
bruised  and  flung  from  wave  to  wave  by  the  savage  sea, 
as  it  hurts  one  to  see  some  beautiful  horse  or  helpless 
dog  cruelly  flogged.  He  strode  on,  head  down  against 
the  buffeting  blast  that  was  laden  with  stinging  sand 
and  salt  and  even  small  pebbles,  and,  joining  some  coast- 
guardsmen  coming  out  of  the  station  laden  with  various 
tackle,  offered  to  lend  a  hand. 

"She'll  be  ashore  in  ten  minutes  unless  she  breaks, 
Martin,"  he  shouted  to  the  officer,  who  was  stepping 


340  RICHARD    ROSNY 

smartly  along  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  with  the  men. 
"Where  will  she  go?" 

' '  She  won 't  break  till  she  grounds, ' '  the  officer  shout- 
ed back.  "She  may  ground  in  Caster  Cove.  We're 
going  to  the  cliff-top  with  lines." 

The  cliffs  were  dotted  now  with  staggering  men  con- 
verging to  the  spot  on  which  it  seemed  likely  the  vessel 
would  be  driven.  The  lighthouse  people  were  on  the 
lookout,  the  life-boat  had  been  launched  from  the  near- 
est station  in  a  bay  a  mile  to  the  west,  and  could  be 
seen  pulling  round  the  headland,  beating  up  against 
the  wind. 

Where  was  Evelyn?  Ronald  wondered,  and  quickly 
decided  that  she  must  have  taken  refuge  with  Nancy  in 
the  nearest  house,  probably  that  of  Mrs.  Martin,  the 
coast-guard  officer's  wife.  But  Evelyn,  who  had  not  met 
Nancy  as  she  expected  under  the  cliff,  but  only  Seth 
Barton,  whom  the  dog  often  followed  and  who  besought 
her  to  take  shelter  against  the  rising  gale  while  he 
hastened  toward  the  sea,  had  gone  homeward  more 
quickly  than  was  pleasant,  literally  driven  before  the 
gale,  against  which  her  strength  was  too  slight  to  stand. 
Sometimes  it  dashed  her  into  a  hedge,  sometimes  against 
a  wall ;  at  times  it  gathered  force  suddenly  with  a  deri- 
sive whoop,  and,  curling  round  her,  threatened  to  lift 
her  clean  off  her  feet,  so  that  she  could  only  cling,  flat- 
tened and  crouching,  to  the  nearest  support  till  she  had 
recovered  her  breath  and  the  worst  fury  of  the  gale 
had  for  a  moment  abated. 

Every  blade  of  grass  was  combed  flat  and  straight 
along  the  ground;  branches  and  twigs,  thatch  and  hay, 
flew  before  the  wind;  every  bush  and  stunted  tree  was 
bent  to  cracking  point;  hurdles  were  laid  flat  and  feed- 
ing-racks blown  over  hedges  away  from  the  bleating 
sheep,  who  cowered  together  with  storm-ruffled  fleece 
wherever  they  could  find  shelter.  Evelyn's  hair  was 
wild,  her  face  scratched,  her  hat  crushed  and  torn,  her 
muff  and  fur  collar  were  gone,  and  her  coat  and  skirt 


THE    STORM  341 

twisted.  She  scarcely  perceived  the  approach  of  some 
men  in  reefer  coats  and  tied-down  caps,  before  the  gale 
carried  her  straight  into  the  arms  of  the  foremost  and 
tallest  with  such  force  that  he  rocked  under  the  shock 
and  steadied  himself  with  an  effort. 

''Evelyn!"  he  shouted,  and  she  hardly  recognized 
that  it  was  her  husband  till  he  began  to  scold  her. 
"What  on  earth  took  you  out  in  such  weather?  Lucky 
I  found  you. — I'll  follow  when  I've  taken  her  home, 
Mayne. ' ' 

"Let  me  take  her,"  Herbert  shouted  back.  "I'll 
follow.  A  pity  to  keep  you  back.  You  are  of  more  use 
than  I  am." 

"Take  care  of  her,  then,"  came  in  Richard's  loudest 
roar.  "Take  her  through  the  field,  under  the  lee  of  the 
hedge.  Little  goose ! "  he  added,  putting  her  bodily  into 
Herbert's  hands,  and  rushing  on  in  the  teeth  of  the 
gale  after  Basil  Mayne  and  some  men  and  boys  who  had 
been  with  him. 

"Cling  on,"  Herbert  shouted.  "I'd  better  hold 
you,"  he  added,  taking  her  firmly  round  the  waist. 

"Oh,  the  furniture,"  she  thought  bitterly,  when  she 
found  herself  a  helpless  encumbrance,  passed  from  hand 
to  hand  like  a  parcel,  without  even  a  suggestion  of  her 
own  consent.  "The  furniture  must  be  safely  housed,  I 
suppose.  Anybody  can  be  trusted  to  cart  the  furniture 
about.  He  won't  trouble  himself  with  it." 

"The  back  door,"  was  Herbert's  only  further  word, 
shouted  wThen  they  reached  the  cottage  and  she  was 
making  for  the  front  gate.  ' '  If  you  once  open  the  front 
door, ' '  he  added,  when  they  stood  safe  inside  the  kitchen 
entrance,  "you  women  would  never  be  able  to  shut  it 
again.  I'm  glad  you  let  me  escort  you,  Mrs.  Rosny. 
Your  husband  is  of  such  great  use  in  these  cases.  He's 
so  strong  and  fearless,  and  of  such  resource.  He  will 
save  more  than  one  life  to-day." 

Nancy  came  into  the  kitchen  and  received  her  with 
a  shout  of  laughter  and  much  surprised  conjecture 


342  RICHARD    ROSNY 

as  to  how  and  why  she  had  been  out  so  long  in  such 
weather. 

"Ronald  Musgrave  left  me  on  Wimbury  Waste," 
she  told  Evelyn,  when  Herbert  was  off  to  the  sea  again. 
"He  told  me  that  the  gale  was  rising  and  I  had  better 
beat  to  quarters.  So  I  came  straight  home  with  Hollo, 
horrified  to  find  you  out  and  hoping  you  were  not  far- 
ther off  than  the  vicarage.  But  Herbert  was  bringing 
you  from  the  sea?" 

' '  Yes.  I  had  been  by  the  spring  in  the  undercliff , ' ' 
she  replied  with  composure.  "It  was  so  warm  and 
sheltered  there  that  I  had  no  idea  of  the  wildness  of  the 
weather  outside  till  I  came  out  and  began  to  sail  before 
the  wind.  You  see,  not  every  one  has  a  sailorman  to 
warn  them  against  heavy  weather.  What  a  spectacle 
I  am!" 

"Somewhat  storm-beaten,  you  poor  thing!"  Nancy 
said,  helping  to  disentangle  her  blown  hair.  "How 
enraging  it  is  to  be  a  woman  when  there's  anything  to 
be  done  like  this !  Every  male  creature  within  miles  is 
out  upon  the  cliffs.  However,  Richard  asked  if  you 
would  have  hot  blankets,  baths,  and  fires,  and  plenty 
of  hot  water  and  brandy  ready.  So  it  seems  that  we're 
good  for  something,  after  all." 

They  went  to  a  window  in  the  roof  and  looked 
through  glasses  at  the  groups  fringing  the  cliff,  which 
was  sheeted  in  thin  spindrift  and  occasionally  topped 
by  the  foam  of  a  roller  flying  up  the  cliff  face.  They 
made  out  the  coast-guardsmen  busy  by  a  flare  above 
Caster  Cove;  they  even  made  out  some  of  the  men 
grouped  with  them,  especially  Rosny,  who  was  distin- 
guishable by  his  superior  height.  They  saw  a  steel  hel- 
met shining  on  his  head;  then  he  sank,  as  it  were, 
slowly  beneath  the  ground,  and  disappeared. 

"He's  gone  down  the  cliff  with  a  life-line,"  Nancy 
said  in  an  awed  voice.  '•The  vessel  must  have  ground- 
ed in  Caster  Cove.  Oh,  Evelyn,  you  have  married  a 
man ! ' ' 


THE    STORM  343 

' '  I  was  under  that  impression, ' '  Evelyn  replied.  But 
her  heart  gave  a  great  bound;  she  was  almost  stunned 
by  a  crowd  of  thoughts  rushing  suddenly  upon  her.  She 
was  bruised  and  tender  from  being  beaten  against  gate- 
posts and  fences  by  the  heavy  gale;  bits  of  chalk  and 
sand  from  the  stinging  wind  had  been  brushed  out  of 
her  hair  and  shaken  from  her  skirts.  And  Richard,  in 
the  full  fury  of  that  gale,  was  hanging  upon  the  steep 
cliff;  the  surf  boiling  and  foaming  beneath  and  around 
him;  the  blast  dashing  him  against  the  cliff;  pebbles, 
sand,  and  salt  raining  fiercely  upon  him;  stones  and 
earth  loosened  from  the  cliff  pelting  down  upon  him. 
She  saw  and  felt  it  vividly;  she  knew  Caster  Cove,  and 
remembered  how  the  stillest  summer  sea  there  thundered 
through  tunnels  and  caves  hollowed  out  by  the  perpetual 
grind  of  surges  on  the  cliff  base.  Yes,  she  had  married 
a  man;  and  that  man's  life  and  limbs  wrere  being  freely 
imperilled,  not  for  the  first  or  second  time,  for  the  lives 
of  others. 

"But  a  life-line,"  she  faltered  through  pale  lips, 
"would  be  thrown  by  a  rocket." 

"Didn't  you  hear  it  screech  and  see  it  burst? 
There's  another.  Yet  Richard  is  gone  down  the  cliff 
with  something.  The  two  Maynes  must  be  there.  And 
that  tall  man?  Oh,  that  would  be  Ronald  Musgrave." 

' '  Richard  has  probably  gone  down  on  a  rope  ladder, ' ' 
conjectured  Evelyn,  knowing  well  enough  who  the  other 
tall  man  was.  "I  can  not  look  any  more,  Annis.  It 
turns  me  sick.  We  can't  see;  we  can  only  guess." 

' '  Let  us  go  and  pray, ' '  Annis  said,  her  healthy  cheek 
paling  in  the  dusk.  "But  you  are  cold,"  she  added 
quickly,  after  touching  her.  "Come  down  by  the  fire, 
dear.  Let  us  have  tea,  and  I  will  chafe  your  hands  and 
feet." 

They  shut  out  the  storm,  but  not  its  thunderous  roar 
and  wild  shriek,  and  cowered  over  the  warm  hearth, 
Evelyn  shivering  perpetually  in  spite  of  the  hot  tea  and 
Nancy's  chafing  hands.  "Dick  will  come  in  safe  and 


344  RICHARD   ROSNY 

sound,"  Nancy  said  to  comfort  her.  "He  will  be  all 
right.  He  has  saved  many  women  from  widowhood." 

Nancy's  voice  broke  on  the  word.  Widowhood  some- 
times comes  before  marriage.  Her  whole  heart  rose  in 
agony  at  the  thought  and  told  her  how  dear  the  man 
who  silently  loved  her  had  become.  Evelyn  began  to 
sob  hysterically.  Widowhood  meant  infinitely  more  to 
her  than  Nancy  had  any  idea  of — more  than  she  herself 
had  any  idea  of.  Richard  dead!  oh,  it  was  horrible — 
but  the  marriage  bond  sundered  by  that  chill,  inevitable 
hand —  Sinful  woman  that  she  was,  had  she  become  a 
murderess  in  thought? 

"Pray,  Nancy,  pray.  Pray  for  them,"  she  cried  at 
last,  clinging  shuddering  to  her  with  the  desperation  of 
the  drowning  to  the  nearest  spar,  and  burying  her  face 
wildly  in  the  arm  that  sheltered  her. 

The  prayers  soothed  her,  though  she  could  scarcely 
join  in  them.  Then  she  began  to  wander  restlessly 
through  the  house ;  sometimes  standing  at  the  attic  win- 
dow straining  her  sight  through  the  darkness  to  make 
out  the  figures  moving  dimly  in  the  flare-light  above 
Caster  Cove;  sometimes  making  up  fires  and  seeing  to 
the  small  preparations  Richard  had  enjoined;  always 
trying  to  shut  out  the  sound  and  sight  of  the  storm. 
Then  the  solitary  maid  not  out  on  Sunday  leave  was 
bidden  to  the  drawing-room  for  comfort  and  company, 
and  the  three  women  sang  the  hymn  for  those  at  sea, 
their  voices  half  drowned  by  the  organ  notes  and  trum- 
pet-blasts of  the  storm.  Again  the  two  ladies  went  to 
the  kitchen  to  bear  Rhoda  company.  Rollo,  whimpering 
and  uneasy,  was  admitted  to  the  hearth,  where  Fluff 
boxed  his  ears  soundly  to  relieve  his  own  furry  breast 
of  its  disquiet.  The  church  bells,  ringing  for  evensong, 
were  torn  and  tossed  about,  their  rhythm  lost  amid  the 
thunder-claps  of  the  storm;  now  and  again  a  crash  was 
heard,  as  if  some  outbuilding  or  chimney  had  fallen. 
The  mad  exultation  of  the  elements  got  into  Evelyn's 
blood  and  fired  her  brain;  the  passion  of  it  was  in  her 


THE    STORM  345 

eyes  and  burning,  wind-stung  cheeks;  she  longed  to 
throw  herself  into  it,  to  be  carried  away  upon  the  breath 
of  its  fury,  to  be  one  with  it,  to  lose  herself  in  its  tumult 
and  strength  and  so  lose  the  terrible  tumult  in  her  dis- 
tracted soul. 

Nancy  saw  her  agitation  and  tried  to  soothe  it.  She 
made  her  sit  by  the  fire  in  the  oak  parlor  and  talk  of 
other  things  and  other  days,  of  her  old  home  with  the 
Arburys,  of  the  Beltons — Archie's  wild  marriage,  Ger- 
ald's nerve-sickness  and  depression,  Adeline's  engage- 
ment to  Rupert  Chesney,  and  the  perpetual  worry  and 
loss  of  time  these  things  entailed  on  Richard.  Evelyn 
quickly  turned  from  these  topics  and  questioned  Nancy 
on  her  college  life,  whether  she  taught  classics  or  mathe- 
matics, of  her  prospects  of  promotion,  how  her  tennis 
and  golf  clubs  were  arranged,  who  came  to  her  rooms, 
how  often  her  evenings  were  spent  in  society,  why  she 
did  not  persuade  her  father  and  mother  to  live  near  col- 
lege; all  with  preoccupied  eagerness  and  evident  inabil- 
ity to  receive  what  was  said  in  reply.  "And  you  like 
the  life?"  came  for  the  third  time  at  least.  "No  men  to 
worry  you." 

"But  that  is  the  great  drawback,  Evelyn.  One  is 
human,  after  all.  And  sometimes — it — it  is  a  little 
unnatural.  One  dreams  of  a  more  feminine  life." 

"Folly,  Nancy,  folly.  Keep  free;  don't  lose  your 
heart.  That  reminds  me  that — you  seem  to  have  made 
a  great  impression  upon  somebody  lately.  I  heard  all 
about  the  rose  at  the  Barley  Mow." 

"  Oh ! "  cried  Nancy,  recovering  from  a  hot  flush  and 
laughing  with  amused  relief.  ' '  You  mean  Captain  Mus- 
grave.  That's  nothing." 

"But  we  are  always  hearing  of  his  attentions.  He 
seems  to  be  making  a  dead  set  at  you.  He 's  rather  given 
that  way,  you  know,  without  meaning  anything,"  Eve- 
lyn said  with  a  sudden  furtive  look  at  Nancy's  com- 
posed face. 

"Very  kind  of  you  to  warn  me,  Evie.    But  there's 


346  RICHARD    ROSNY 

not  the  slightest  fear.  I  could  never  care  for  a  man  like 
Ronald  Musgrave,  or  he  for  me.  It  is  quite  true  that 
he  seems  attracted — perhaps  by  the  novelty  of  being 
snubbed.  But  I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  breaking 
his  heart,  even  if  he  had  one  to  break.  Probably  there's 
nobody  else  handy  to  flirt  with,  and  that  kind  of  man 
must  play  the  fool  with  somebody." 

''That  kind  of  man?  What  kind?"  Evelyn  asked, 
flushed  with  irritation.  "Richard  thinks  everything  of 
him.  He  is  a  very  fine  officer,  by  all  accounts,  and  cer- 
tainly a  most  accomplished  and  agreeable  man." 

"A  man  of  the  world,  a  man  of  pleasure,  I  suppose. 
A  very  different  man  from  your  splendid  Richard." 

"Different  indeed.  But — was  it  he  or  Richard  who 
went  over  the  cliff?" 

' '  It  might  have  been  he.  No  doubt  he  has  the  bravery 
of  his  kind.  He  is  an  Englishman  and  a  sailor.  But 
not  a  good  man  like  Richard." 

"Not  quite.  But — he's  human,  very,  very  human. 
Nancy,  when  will  they  come  back?  It's  striking  ten. 
Five  mortal  hours  in  that  awful  wind  and  sea." 

The  storm  was  lulling  now  and  the  church  chimes 
could  be  heard  beating  steadily  on  the  swell  of  the  wind. 
The  quarter  struck  and  the  half-hour,  and  then  men's 
voices  and  steps  were  heard  outside,  and  Evelyn  rose, 
wild-eyed  and  pale,  and  went  to  the  back  door,  which 
was  just  admitting  a  group  of  men  staggering  under  the 
weight  of  another  man  on  a  stretcher  in  their  midst. 
Her  heart  gave  a  great,  choking  bound  when  she  per- 
ceived the  face  of  Ronald  Musgrave  among  the  bearers, 
and  she  staggered  and  recovered  herself  before  asking 
Seth  Barton,  who  was  next  her,  in  a  faint  voice,  "Is 
he  dead?" 

"Lord  love  ee,  no;  not  a  bit  of  it,  ma'am.  But  the 
breath  is  regular  beat  out  of  en.  He 's  entirely  twickered 
out,  that's  all." 


CHAPTER   XXX 

AT   THE   VILLAGE    CLUB 

ON  the  morning  after  the  wreck  there  was  a  melan- 
choly summing  up  of  the  total  of  lives  lost,  when  the 
tale  of  the  recovered  bodies  and  the  lives  saved  was  told 
at  the  vicarage,  not  without  thankfulness  and  gentle 
exultation  for  the  part  played  by  the  Wimbury  folk  in 
the  rescue. 

"There  were  the  four  Rosny  carried  up  the  cliff — 
the  boy,  the  two  injured  men,  and  the  poor  fellow  who 
was  exhausted,"  Herbert  counted.  "Then  the  man  he 
went  down  the  cliff  to  help — that  was  an  awful  business, 
Kit — either  the  poor  chap's  strength  was  beaten  out  of 
him  or  he  was  stunned ;  there  he  hung  in  the  ropes,  help- 
less and  dashed  upon  the  cliff  again  and  again  till 
Rosny  got  down  to  him  with  another  line  and  brought 
him  up.  That  makes  five.  Then  the  poor  fellow  whose 
arm  was  broken  while  he  was  being  hauled  up,  and  who 
was  helped  up  by  Ronald  Musgrave  with  another  line — 
six.  And  six  came  up  on  the  rope  ladder  by  themselves — 
twelve  altogether." 

"Wouldn't  you  reckon  those  who  got  ashore  in  the 
Cove  and  were  taken  off  by  the  life-boat  this  morning  ? ' ' 
Basil  asked.  "But  for  the  things  the  coast-guard  let 
down  to  them,  they  would  hardly  have  got  through  the 
night.  They  were  six.  That's  eighteen.  What  strength 
Rosny  has !  Not  another  man  there  could  have  carried 
those  four  men  up  the  cliff." 

"Considering  that  six  only  just  managed  to  carry 
themselves,  and  the  others  chose  the  rigging  and  the 
open  rock  all  night  in  preference  to  the  climb,  I  wonder 

347 


348  RICHARD    ROSNY 

he  has  a  whole  part  left  in  him.  He  got  off  well  with 
bruises  and  exhaustion  and  a  dislocated  shoulder.  Burt 
is  a  strong  fellow,  but  the  breath  was  .banged  out  of  him 
half-way  down  the  cliff,  and  Ashton  wras  nearly  fin- 
ished before  he  got  down  to  help  him.  Musgrave  stood 
it  well,  but  was  quite  exhausted  before  he  reached  the 
top  of  the  cliff,  which  he  could  never  have  done  but  for 
half  a  dozen  stout  pairs  of  arms  to  rope  him  and  the 
sailor  up.  It  was  a  fine  thing,  Kitty.  Martin  was 
pleased  with  the  men;  but  he  hasn't  a  Rosny,  or  even 
a  Musgrave,  among  them  except  for  bravery  and  good- 
will." 

"And  how  about  their  parson,  shall  he  have  no 
glory?"  Kitty  asked.  "And  our  Camford  scholar?  By 
the  state  of  your  hands  and  faces,  you  poor  dears,  you 
were  not  mere  spectators  last  night." 

' '  Oh,  his  reverence  lent  a  hand  to  everything,  Kitty, ' ' 
Basil  said.  "I  tried  to  shove  my  oar  in  now  and  then. 
Not  that  I  had  much  chance  among  your  native  Sam- 
sons. Our  complexions  won't  spoil,  and,  as  you  may 
observe,  our  appetites  are  in  nowise  damaged.  Why 
not  run  up  to  the  cottage  presently,  Kit?  Though 
Rosny  has  had  a  good  night,  it  struck  me  it  was  more  like 
coma  than  honest  sleep.  So  Miss  Rosny  thinks,  and  she 
helped  restore  him  last  night.  Mrs.  Rosny  was  be- 
wildered. ' ' 

"We'll  both  go,"  Herbert  said.  "But  Rosny  will 
come  to  no  harm.  He  has  at  least  a  dozen  lives,  and 
amazing  powers  of  recovery.  I'm  told  that  when  the 
Horace  Belton,  which  was  his  gift,  was  launched,  he 
being  in  her,  she  missed  stays  in  a  sudden  squall  off  a 
dead  lee  shore,  and  came  in  and  capsized  upon  it,  pinning 
all  but  the  coxswain  and  himself  under  her.  While  the 
coxswain  made  for  an  oar  to  use  for  a  lever,  Rosny 
lifted  her  by  main  force  and  held  her  while  the  men 
came  out,  and  then  he  righted  her.  There  was  no  time 
to  lose ;  one  man  was  stunned  and  another  had  a  broken 
leg,  as  it  was.  A  few  seconds  made  all  the  difference 


AT   THE   VILLAGE   CLUB        349 

between  life  and  death  to  them.  The  strain  disabled 
him.  He  had  a  nasty  knock  on  the  head  from  mast  or 
bulwark  when  she  turned  over.  One  is  always  hearing 
these  legends  of  Rosny.  Yet  the  man  lives  a  desk-and- 
ledger  life,  except  on  Sundays,  when  he  boats  and 
plays  footer  and  cricket  with  the  boys  between  the 
services. ' ' 

Richard  kept  Sabbath  all  that  day  till  the  evening, 
with  a  pleasant  pervading  sense  of  home  and  Evelyn's 
beauty  and  ministering  presence,  and  an  even  pleasanter 
impression  of  last  night.  Waking,  he  could  shut  his 
eyes,  and  the  whole  of  the  fierce,  wild  joy  rushed  back. 
The  stinging  spray,  charged  with  chalk  and  sand,  beat 
upon  his  face,  as  he  dropped  down  the  cliff  in  the  teeth 
of  the  gale,  bracing  his  feet  against  the  rock  on  which 
the  wind  struck  him  from  time  to  time ;  he  felt  the  hiss 
and  crash  of  the  huge  waves  flying  foaming  up  and  over 
him,  drenching  him  and  dragging  him  down  to  the  cal- 
dron of  surf  that  thundered  with  perpetual  boom  and 
intermittent  clap  beneath ;  he  felt  the  glory  and  grandeur 
of  the  wild  wind  and  the  awful,  irresistible  strength  of 
enormous  rollers  crashing  one  upon  another  with  long- 
drawn  roar  and  explosive  boom;  he  heard  the  jarring 
undergrind  of  torn  shingle  in  the  back  draft,  feeling 
himself  a  feeble  atom  in  the  heart  of  the  magnificent 
hurly-burly,  tossed  like  a  cork  from  giant  hand  to  giant 
hand,  and  near  to  be  shattered  like  a  shell  upon  the  cliff- 
wall,  and  yet  exulting  in  his  strength  to  resist  and  defy 
those  mighty  forces  and  drinking  deeply  of  the  joy  of 
battle  with  raging  sea  and  furious  wind — above  all, 
exulting  in  being  able  to  pluck  their  prey  alive  from  the 
foaming  turmoil  of  the  great  breakers  that  crashed  over 
the  stranded  vessel  with  angry,  deafening  roar.  To  be 
so  thrillingly,  passionately  alive  in  the  very  gaping  jaws 
and  quick-coming  clutches  of  death,  to  defy  and  baffle 
that  dark  and  subtle  foe,  to  wrestle  to  the  last  gasp  with 
the  dread  presence  sheeted  in  storm  and  voiced  by  the 
sea 's  thunder-roar — was  a  joy  never  to  be  forgotten.  To 


350  RICHARD   ROSNY 

face  the  terrible  upward  climb  lashed  to  an  injured  man, 
the  ropes  quivering  under  the  double  strain  and  fraying 
in  the  continuous  friction,  which  brought  hail  of  crum- 
bling cliff  and  stone  upon  his  helmeted  head,  and, 
whirled  in  winds  and  drenched  by  surging  seas,  to  keep 
his  living  burden  from  striking  against  the  cliff,  was 
indeed  fulness  of  life.  It  was  the  joy  imagined  when  as  a 
boy  he  rowed  out  to  the  lighthouse  on  the  wedding-day, 
and  first  divined  the  pleasure  of  action  and  delight  of 
dominating  the  great,  unpitying  elemental  forces  that 
move  in  wind  and  wave  and  grinding  surge,  and  felt  the 
freedom  and  vigor  of  open-air  life  in  a  first  escape  from 
the  hothouse  of  forced  emotion. 

And  when  the  rescued  life  was  safely  landed  and 
borne  by  willing  arms  to  warmth  and  shelter,  a  better 
feeling  stirred  his  ebbing  pulses  with  an  exquisite  thank- 
fulness that  he  was  allowed  to  save  human  life.  It  was 
another  symbol  and  seal  of  forgiveness. 

"How  happy  he  looks!"  Nancy  said,  after  helping 
Evelyn  with  bandages  and  fomentations,  and  leaving 
Richard  dreaming  over  these  glorious  experiences  again. 

"Perfectly.  Why  not?  It  is  his  nature.  Nothing 
disturbs  him;  he  is  always  happy.  It  is  so  easy  for  men 
to  be  happy;  they  can  do,  we  can  only  suffer." 

"I  don't  envy  him  those  bruises  and  that  arm  and 
those  torn  hands,  or  even  the  cut  face  and  swollen  eyes. 
I  don't  know  what  he  looks  like — unless  it's  the  wicked 
stepmother  in  the  fairy-tale  after  she  was  rolled  down- 
hill in  the  barrel  studded  with  nails — and  to  quite  come 
up  to  poor  Dick,  she  would  have  to  be  put  under  a  steam- 
roller for  an  hour  as  well." 

"Where  is  Ronald?"  had  been  Rosny's  first  hoarse 
question  when  warmth  and  stimulants  had  somewhat 
restored  him  the  night  before,  and  Evelyn's  voice  had 
failed  her  in  the  act  of  telling  him  that  he  had  gone 
home  unhurt.  In  the  forenoon  he  called  and  stood  by 
Rosny  with  an  unusual  expression  on  his  face.  Richard 
roused  at  his  voice,  gripped  his  hand,  and  began  to  doze 


AT   THE   VILLAGE   CLUB       351 

again,  when  Ronald  turned  and  left  the  house  with  mis- . 
erable  eyes  bent  on  the  ground. 

"I  couldn't  make  him  understand  that  Richard  was 
all  right,"  Nancy  told  Evelyn.  "He  was  too  much 
upset  to  take  it  in.  After  all,  he  has  more  heart  than  I 
supposed.  He  sprained  his  ankle  last  night,  and  has  a 
most  interesting  limp;  but  his  beauty,  I  sadly  fear,  is 
spoiled  for  the  present;  his  face  is  only  less  raw  than 
Dick 's.  I  think  I  like  him  better  ugly ;  I  am  beginning 
to  feel  quite  kindly  toward  him  in  his  present  unflirta- 
tious  mood." 

' '  I  thought  you  would  some  day  do  him  more  justice, 
Nancy.  Every  one  came  out  well  last  night ;  even  Lord 
Randal  turned  out,  but,  after  being  blown  into  a  ditch, 
ran  home  again  before  the  wind.  He  is  sheltering  the 
poor  drowned  men — a  gruesome  hospitality  but  a  true 
one — that  is  Seth  Barton's  news.  Oh,  Nan,  to  think 
what  might  have  happened,"  she  cried,  suddenly  press- 
ing her  hands  to  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  some  terrible 
sight.  "I  feel  as  if — as  if — I  had  been  shipwrecked 
myself,  and  rescued  by  a  hair's  breadth;  I  can  hardly 
realize  it.  I'm  all  dizzy  and  confused." 

She  went  about  the  house  that  day  bewildered  like 
one  in  a  dream.  It  was  so  strange,  so  amazing,  to  have 
Richard  at  home  all  day,  more  amazing  still  to  have  him 
motionless,  helpless,  and  hurt.  But  to  have  him  there  at 
all,  alive,  after  the  wild  thoughts  of  last  night,  was  a  great 
deliverance.  She  began  to  realize  what  a  great  remorse 
might  be  and  to  dread  the  possibility  of  spiritual  suffer- 
ing. A  great  amazement,  too,  was  produced  by  the  esteem 
in  which  Richard  was  held,  not  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood alone,  but  everywhere.  The  lane  was  thronged 
with  people  of  every  description  from  everywhere  within 
a  dozen  miles  and  more  all  day  long,  and  all  day  long 
there  was  a  subdued  hum  of  voices  and  rumble  of  wheels 
from  those  who  came  and  went.  Bushels  of  cards  poured 
in,  and  later  in  the  day  sheaves  of  telegrams  from  people 
and  societies  and  associations  she  had  never  heard  of. 


352  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Every  man  and  boy  within  a  couple  of  miles,  and  many 
women  and  girls,  came  that  day,  all  with  real  anxiety 
in  their  faces,  and  most  of  them  waiting  to  gather  what 
intelligence  they  could;  some  of  the  more  intimate 
friends,  like  Seth  Barton,  and  Gatrell,  who  had  "just 
stepped  over"  from  Ingrestone,  asking  to  be  allowed  to 
look  at  him  through  the  door. 

Gerald,  who  had  ridden  over  from  Ingrestone  in  the 
afternoon,  complained  that  he  could  hardly  get  in,  and 
recommended  the  employment  of  some  of  the  men  as 
chuckers-out  of  interviewers,  who  had  been  doing  their 
deadly  work  at  the  coast-guard  and  life-boat  stations,  at 
the  vicarage,  the  Retreat,  the  village  club,  everywhere, 
and  were  now  importuning  the  inmates  of  the  cottage. 

Evelyn  turned  from  the  window,  whence  the 
thronged  road  was  visible,  to  the  object  of  all  this 
solicitude  and  affection  who  was  stretched  his  stalwart 
length  on  the  bed  and  unconscious  of  anything  but  yes- 
terday's wild  joy  and  to-day's  peace.  His  hands  and 
eyes  were  bandaged,  his  face  covered  with  ointments  and 
plasters,  but  the  grand  outline  of  his  athletic  figure 
was  perceptible  under  the  coverings.  Sometimes  he 
wanted  his  face  free,  wiien  the  happiness  written  on  the 
scarified  features  was  noticeable.  Fluff  sat  on  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  his  plumy  tail  daintily  coiled  round  his  paws, 
and,  with  a  majestic  toleration  mixed  with  displeasure 
on  his  thoughtful  face,  surveyed  the  tall  form  before 
him  with  a  mysterious  and  profound  glance.  So  Fluff 
had  been  sitting  for  hours,  a  small,  shaggy,  gray-coated 
sentinel,  keeping  self-imposed  guard  and  evidently  con- 
vinced that  things  were  not  at  all  as  they  should  be  with 
the  man  he  owned.  Rollo  was  stretched  on  the  hearth- 
rug, his  muzzle  on  his  paws,  his  eyes  winking  watchfully, 
his  tail  occasionally  beating  a  tattoo  on  the  floor,  at 
which  Fluff  swore  gently  in  reproof. 

"Even  the  cat  and  dog,"  she  thought,  and  sighed 
most  wearily.  She  meant  to  do  her  duty,  but  it  seemed 
a  bitter  thing,  even  when  she  remembered  that  she  had 


AT   THE   VILLAGE   CLUB       353 

once  loved  the  man  who  seemed  to  her  to  have  a  heart 
for  every  one  but  herself.  "If  he  were  only  a  worse 
man  and  better  husband, ' '  she  mused,  yet  she  envied  him 
this  power  of  winning  worship  from  every  one — except 
his  wife — and  partly  knew  that  such  worship  is  not  for 
the  self-centered.  Was  she  so  much  to  blame  after  all? 
she  wondered,  reviewing  the  loneliness  and  the  aching 
longing  of  her  life.  Could  the  misery  she  saw  yesterday 
in  Ronald's  face  and  heard  in  his  voice  be  laid  to  her 
charge?  Ronald  was,  after  all,  in  Nancy's  phrase,  a 
wan,  and  a  gallant  man,  who  ungrudgingly  risked  life 
and  limb  for  strangers,  as  Richard  had  done.  He  had 
been  hurt ;  she  had  observed  the  halting  step  with  which 
he  had  dragged  himself  away.  Would  to  Heaven  she 
had  never  seen  him,  never  vexed  him  with  her  harmful 
beauty;  would  to  Heaven  she  were  rolled  far,  far  away 
in  those  surging  waves  that  had  swallowed  so  many  gal- 
lant lives,  and  were  even  now  audible  in  the  gradual 
stilling  of  the  spent  storm,  the  low  growl  and  fretful 
murmur  of  which  had  not  wholly  subsided;  would  to 
Heaven  she  were  still  and  cold  at  rest  in  their  green  and 
quiet  depths !  She  bowed  her  head  on  her  hands  on  the 
brass  rail  of  the  bed,  and  choked  back  a  sob  that  vibrated 
the  figure  with  the  whole  bed. 

"Is  that  Fluff,  or  Rollo?"  asked  Richard,  who 
could  not  see  her  through  his  bandages. 

"No;  it  is  only  me,"  she  said  in  a  low,  even  voice. 
"Shall  I  read  you  something,  Richard?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  not  the  money-market.  What  you  were 
reading  in  the  boat  that  day." 

"Elaine?"  she  faltered.    "Poetry?" 

"Aye;  poetry.  It's  a  holiday  to-day.  Elaine,  what 
you  like.  Or  Enoch  Arden.  The  sea  is  in  that." 

Amazed,  she  fetched  the  book,  and  read,  as  she  could 
read,  with  charm  and  propriety  and  moving  pathos,  in 
the  sea-like  rhythm  of  that  idyl  of  English  coast  life, 
till  the  rooks  sailed  home,  the  last  red  sun-glow  faded 
from  the  sky,  and  dusk  gathered  in  the  peaceful  room, 


354  RICHARD    ROSNY 

where  only  the  fire's  flapping  and  clock's  ticking  pointed 
the  silence. 

Fluff,  from  a  responsible  sentinel  had  long  since 
become  a  beautifully  shaded  coil  of  silky  gray  fur, 
dreaming  in  secure  peace,  and  Rollo,  as  much  soothed 
and  relieved  of  responsibility  as  Fluff  by  the  continu- 
ous melody  of  the  well-known  voice,  was  stretched  in 
voluptuous  ease  on  his  side  with  outlaid  paws  and  blink- 
ing eyes.  Richard  lay  like  a  felled  column,  without  a 
stir  in  his  perfect  rest.  All  was  peace  and  tranquil 
enjoyment  except  in  Evelyn's  wild  and  tortured  young 
heart,  that  ached  and  struggled  in  its  solitude,  like  some 
fierce,  trapped  creature,  both  in  the  quiet  and  during  the 
enchantment  of  her  beautiful  reading.  Neither  she  nor 
Richard  ever  so  dimly  divined  the  contrast  between  what 
was  passing  unknown  to  either  in  the  heart  of  each. 

Presently  he  roused  up.  "Do  you  remember  the 
night  Nancy  played  the  sonata  that  has  the  sea  in  it?" 
he  said.  "She  and  the  Maynes  were  dining  here,  and 
you  and  Musgrave  danced  the  minuet  in  the  moonlight  ? ' ' 

"Perfectly.  Nancy's  playing  startled  us  all.  The 
inspiration  of  Basil  Mayne's  presence,  no  doubt." 

"Aye;  they  think  he  is  making  up  to  her.  She's 
too  good  for  him;  Ronald  would  be  far  better — a  thor- 
ough good  fellow.  He  went  the  pace  in  the  old  days; 
but  he  has  steadied  down  now.  Why  won't  she  have 
him?  And  why  is  he  never  here  now?" 

"Because  you  are  so  much  away,"  she  said,  glad 
that  the  sudden  flame  in  her  face  was  visible.  ' '  He  came 
to  tea  the  first  day  of  Nancy's  visit.  Didn't  I  tell 
you?" 

"Might  not  he  dine  here  with  you  and  Nancy?  But 
I  must  fix  a  night  for  him  when  I  can  come  home.  Don't 
let  me  forget;  perhaps  on  boxing-night." 

But  boxing-night  found  Ronald  Musgrave  with  a 
previous  engagement,  and  no  other  evening  available 
while  he  was  in  the  neighborhood.  Rosny  was  unusually 
occupied  with  affairs  at  that  time  or  he  might  have 


AT   THE   VILLAGE   CLUB        355 

observed  that  Ronald  avoided  him ;  for  without  being  a 
saint,  one  may  have  no  love  for  domestic  treachery. 
There  were  many  dark  pages  in  Ronald  Musgrave's  life, 
and  few  without  reproach;  but  he  wanted  to  be  loyal. 
And  very  strangely  all  feelings  concerned  with  honor 
and  loyalty  had  grown  more  sensitive  since  his  love  for 
Evelyn.  Many  light  loves  had  been  his  and  many  vehe- 
ment passions;  but  nothing  like  the  feeling  with  which 
she  inspired  him;  and  yet  this  love,  the  very  existence 
of  which  was  a  disloyalty,  made  honor  and  loyalty 
dearer  and  more  desirable  to  him  than  ever ;  it  unsealed 
deeper  and  fresher  springs  of  feeling,  and  inspired  him 
with  purer  ideals.  He  had  meant  no  wrong  in  his  sym- 
pathy with  this  lovely  and  lonely  young  life — in  other 
cases  he  had  meant  wrong,  but  not  in  this — he  had  been 
genuinely  moved  by  the  isolation  and  suffering  of  a 
nature  apparently  so  little  understood,  and  so  lightly 
valued,  and  had  only  wished  to  make  a  dreary  lot  a  little 
brighter.  He  had  never  thought  to  kindle  perilous  feel- 
ings in  her,  for  he  had  the  unbounded  confidence  of  a 
man  of  pleasure  in  the  impregnability  of  a  pure-minded 
woman's  heart,  and  the  profligate's  sure  instinct  to 
detect  frailty,  and  in  Evelyn  he  found  none. 

But  he  had  neither  reckoned  on  her  susceptibility  to 
pure  passion,  nor  fathomed  the  depths  of  her  starved 
nature's  need,  nor  divined  that  all  the  virtues  sometimes 
combine  to  conspire  against  virtue  itself,  and  when  the 
conviction  that  she  loved  him  came,  it  went  like  fiery 
wine  to  his  head,  making  short  work  of  every  considera- 
tion, except  the  one  inexorable  necessity  of  taking  to 
himself  her  who  had  become  so  inextricably  intertwined 
with  the  life  of  his  life.  She  had  waked  the  finest  chords 
in  his  nature,  and  had  lifted  him  above  himself;  he 
could  forget  himself  and  deny  himself  for  her;  he  ex- 
pected her  to  forget  and  deny  herself  for  him;  she  had 
become  his  unawares — her  very  purity  bound  her  to 
him.  But  though  all  good  dies,  honor  dies  hard,  espe- 
cially in  an  English  heart,  and,  in  spite  of  all  sophistry, 


356  RICHARD    ROSNY 

Konald  Musgrave  loathed  the  thought  of  betraying  his 
friend,  whom,  nevertheless,  he  was  pledged  to  betray 
and  firmly  intended  to  betray.  Therefore  he  dreaded 
the  sight  of  him ;  therefore  he  hated  him  with  the  strange 
hate  that  comes  of  love  wronged  to  the  wronger;  there- 
fore he  sought  occasion  against  him  and  wished  him  un- 
worthy; and  therefore  the  hours  of  gallant  effort  and 
heroic  endurance  shared  with  him  on  the  cliff,  were 
hours  of  passionate  misery,  envenomed  by  bitterest 
shame,  and  the  sight  of  his  friend,  blind  and  helpless 
on  his  bed,  was  torture  to  him. 

The  drowned  bodies  recovered  from  the  sea  were 
buried  in  Wimbury  churchyard  a  few  days  after  Christ- 
mas, on  a  fair,  calm  day  of  melting  hoar-frost,  with 
a  great  following  from  the  village  and  the  country 
round,  that  included  many  of  those  who  had  tried  to 
save  them.  Knowing  that  Rosny  would  not  be  there, 
Ronald  walked  behind  the  coffins  of  the  strange,  poor 
men  the  tempest  had  cast  upon  their  unavailing  charity ; 
few  in  the  neighborhood  omitted  this  chivalrous  tribute 
to  the  unconscious  victims  of  a  gallant  calling,  nor  was 
any  one  following  them  too  poor  or  too  rich  to  contribute 
something  toward  the  relief  of  the  survivors. 

On  the  evening  succeeding  this  pathetic  ceremony, 
it  occurred  to  Basil  Mayne  to  go  into  the  village  club — 
otherwise  a  public-house  on  the  reformed  plan  advo- 
cated and  put  in  action  by  Rosny,  and  by  the  irreverent 
termed  a  pious  pub.  The  professor  found  himself  in  a 
clean  room,  warm  and  well  lighted,  with  plain  deal 
tables  and  benches  and  a  sanded  floor.  He  sat  down  on 
a  bench  alone,  wondering  what  hidden  charm  made  this 
different  from  other  houses.  Laboring  men  sat  about  the 
room  in  twos  and  threes ;  some  had  a  glass  of  ale  before 
them,  some  only  a  pipe,  one  had  a  bottle  of  ginger-beer, 
another  a  cup  of  steaming  cocoa;  some  talked  and  some 
were  silent ;  there  was  decorum  and  evident  though  quiet 
enjoyment.  No  one  observed,  or  appeared  to  observe, 
the  professor's  errand,  the  table  he  had  chosen  being 


shaded  by  a  projection  in  the  wall,  until,  when  the  bar- 
man passed,  he  asked  and  received  a  glass  of  ale,  still 
without  attracting  attention  from  the  social  groups  talk- 
ing in  the  country  laborer's  intermittent  way  with  long, 
meditative  pauses. 

"She'll  lay  there  till  spring;  she  won't  break  up," 
one  man  said,  "without  they  tries  to  get  her  afloat  too 
soon. ' ' 

"The  many  I've  seen  go  aground  in  Caster  Cove!" 
said  an  old  man  after  a  long  pause.  "Moastly  breaks 
up  when  they  comes  ashore." 

"Without  they  clears  high-water  mark,  like  she," 
said  the  first  speaker. 

"I  tell  ee,"  Mayne  heard  from  another  table,  "it 
hadn't  ought  to  be.  Somebody  had  ought  to  up  and 
tell  en,  Barton.  'Tis  a  proper  scandal.  It's  in  and  out 
of  gairden,  up  and  down  cliff,  waiten  and  watchen,  and 
him  away — all  day  long,  and  pretty  nigh  all  night,  too." 

"He  don't  go  for  she,"  returned  Barton  slowly  be- 
tween thoughtful  pipe-puffs;  "goes  for  t'other." 

"For  Miss?  No  vear,  goes  for  Missus.  I  seen  'em 
a-Sunday.  She  come  out  by  coast-guard,  pretty  nigh 
blowed  off  of  her  feet.  What  do  a  soft-bred  ooman  like 
she  want  to  go  traipsen  about  country  in  weather  like 
that  for?  Vive  minutes  after,  out  comes  he — they  be 
that  craafty,  one '11  bide  for  t'other  to  get  clear  off.  Off 
goes  his  hat  over  cliff,  he  being  took  unbeknownst  by 
the  storm." 

' '  Go  long.  I  seen  en  long  with  miss  a-Sunday  after- 
noon. Gwaine  athirt  Wimbury  Waaste  they  wer',  a 
proper  courten  couple  as  ever  you  med  wish  to  see." 

"Well,  there,  he  come  out  from  under  cliff  by  the 
spring  a-Sunday,  when  the  ship  was  comen  in.  Coast- 
guard was  stepping  along  to  Caster  Cove.  All  of  'em 
seen  en,  and  he  went  along  with  'em.  Borried  a  cap 
off  Jem  Ashton.  I  tell  ee,  Seth  Barton,  Miss  is  only  a 
blind.  He's  acten  with  she.  She've  got  her  own  sweet- 
heart up  at  the  vicarage — him  with  the  glasses.  When 


358  RICHARD   ROSNY 

folk  is  about  sinful  doens  like  this  here,  it  do  sharp  their 
wits  up  wonderful;  makes  'em  pretty  nigh  as  deep  as 
the  devil." 

"Then  I  hreckon  you've  a-ben  about  summat  middlen 
sinful,  Job  Daish,"  Seth  retorted.  "Your  wits  seems 
sharpened  up  pretty  fine.  You  sees  more  peas  inside  of 
a  shuck  than  the  Almighty  ever  put  into  en." 

"There's  many  hain't  sense  enough  to  see  the  shells, 
let  alone  the  peas  inside  of  'em,  Seth  Barton.  Tis  a 
mis'ble  bad  job  down  at  Rosny's,  whatever  you  med 
zay.  I've  come  across  'em,  and  my  Missus  she've  seen 
'em,  times  and  times.  He  never  went  up  vicarage  when 
Miss  tid  up  there,  not  he.  A  handsome  young  ooman  do 
melt  the  hearts  of  mankind,  to  be  sure,  but  give  I  a  hard- 
vaavored  one  what '11  bide  honest." 

"Too  much  jaw  was  put  in  when  you  was  made, 
Daish.  If  ee  cain't  vind  summat  to  jaw  about  without 
taken  away  of  volk's  characters,  you  med  as  well  bide 
quiet,"  Seth  replied,  emptying  his  glass  and  dragging 
himself  up  reluctantly.  "My  Missus '11  jaw  me  if  I  don't 
go  home.  So  good  night  to  ee, ' '  he  added,  clumping  out 
of  the  room  and  leaving  Basil  Mayne  unobserved  in  his 
shadowed  corner,  still  as  a  stone  and  full  of  thought. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 
SETH   BABTON'S   JAUNT 

PROFESSOE  MAYNE  did  not  go  to  the  village  club 
merely  to  listen  to  village  gossip,  but  rather  to  observe 
personally  the  working  of  this  scheme  for  reforming 
public-houses,  of  which  his  brother  was  so  full.  Never- 
theless, he  saw  nothing  more  of  the  King's  Arms  that 
night;  he  left  un visited  the  reading-room,  the  woman's 
tea-room,  and  the  big  room,  in  which  dancing  was  taught 
and  practised,  sing-songs  were  held,  and  lectures  and 
entertainments  given.  Nor  did  he  visit  the  barn  with 
a  shooting-gallery  along  one  end,  which  served  as  a 
winter  gymnasium,  and  as  a  summer  dining-  and  tea- 
room, or  the  covered  skittle-alley  opening  on  to  the  bowl- 
ing green,  or  the  bath  and  dressing-rooms;  he  merely 
observed  that  an  old-fashioned  country  inn  and  its  out- 
houses and  grounds  had  been  enlarged  and  heightened 
and  converted  to  many  uses  new  to  village  folk,  without 
entirely  losing  its  familiar  characteristics  and  air  of 
homely  comfort. 

"I'm  glad  you  haven't  parsonized  the  place,  Her- 
bert, ' '  he  was  good  enough  to  observe  at  dinner.  ' '  You 
don't  seem  to  boss  the  house  at  all.  Hodge  evidently 
does  as  he  pleases  and  takes  his  ease  in  his  inn  accord- 
ing to  his  own  taste.  There  are  no  texts  on  the  walls. 
Yet  everything  seems  decent  and  orderly.  How  is  the 
thing  done?" 

"The  company  have  a  few  simple  rules.  Member- 
ship by  ballot,  no  obligation  to  drink  'for  the  good  of 
the  house,'  a  limited  quantity  of  drink — the  maximum, 
they  call  it — during  the  day.  If  members  don't  expel 

359 


360  RICHARD   ROSNY 

a  disorderly  member — a  notorious  drunkard  or  profli- 
gate— the  company  may  compel  them  to.  But,  after  all, 
the  majority  of  people  in  all  classes  prefer  decent  con- 
duct. Eosny  modelled  the  publics,  allowing  for  neces- 
sary differences,  on  the  best  West  End  clubs,  and  he 
introduced  a  feminine  element,  as  you  may  have  ob- 
served. A  trouble  in  a  little  village  like  this  is  the 
accommodation  of  travelers,  who  can  not  all  be  members, 
though  some  are.  There  is  scarcely  room  here  for  a  regu- 
lar public  baiting  and  lodging  place  for  man  and  beast 
besides  the  club,  though  one  actually  exists  here,  thanks 
to  summer  trippers.  All  our  houses  are  affiliated  to  the 
central  club.  Membership  in  one  town  or  village  or 
house  means  membership  in  all  and  is  easily  proved." 

"But  does  it  pay?"  Basil  asked,  and  Herbert  was  too 
much  interested  in  his  subject  to  observe  that  his 
brother's  mind  was  full  of  something  closer  and  more 
personal  to  him  than  reformed  public-houses. 

"The  association  is  paying  a  fair  dividend;  but  the 
King's  Arms  doesn't  pay — yet;  it's  building  and  fur- 
nishing outlay  would  take  time  to  cover.  This  is  gener- 
ally advanced  by  the  association  at  a  small  percentage  of 
interest.  The  King's  Arms,  like  many  village  houses, 
was  started  by  private  beneficence.  Certainly  I  go  there, 
Basil.  Why  not  ?  I  have  my  rights  as  a  member.  Ches- 
ney  is  a  member;  Kathleen  is  a  member." 

"I'm  not  often  seen  hobnobbing  with  gossips  over 
a  pint  of  ale  and  a  pipe,"  she  explained.  "But  I've 
had  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  women's  room  and  taken  a  book 
from  the  library." 

"Well,  saving  your  presence,  I  should  think  you 
were  an  infernal  nuisance  there,  both  you  and  Herbert. ' ' 

"Very  likely,"  he  cheerfully  agreed,  "still,  it  seems 
best  to  go  there  occasionally — at  present,  at  all  events. 
I  know  my  place,  bless  you,  and  take  care  to  take  a  back 
seat.  So  does  Kit." 

"Hm!  I'm  old-fashioned  enough  to  regret  the  ex- 
tinction of  the  good  old  village  publics,  and  dread  these 


SETH   BARTON'S   JAUNT         361 

artificial,  new-fangled,  philanthropic  substitutes.  The 
village  Falstaffs,  the  jovial,  good-tempered  Rip  Van 
Winkles,  seem  to  me  an  essential  part  of  the  human 
comedy.  Because  you  and  Rosny  are  virtuous,  shall 
there  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale?" 

"Ah!  that's  where  we  score,  Basil.  You  couldn't 
get  cake  at  the  old  publics,  but  the  King's  Arms  supplies 
the  most  delicious  cakes  going.  Kit  has  invented  a  spe- 
cial club  cake  for  them.  And  as  for  ale,  and  'ginger 
hot  in  the  mouth?'  Circumspice — next  time  you  go." 

"I  had  no  idea  a  Goldenose  don  could  be  so  nobly 
conservative,  Basil,"  Kathleen  said.  "It  removes  the 
last  spice  of  regret  at  having  made  you  the  baby's  god- 
father. I  feel  assured  that  your  influence  upon  her 
young  mind  will  be  for  good." 

' '  Nice  centers  of  gossip  your  precious  clubs  will  turn 
out,"  the  professor  complained  in  the  drawing-room, 
when  alone  with  Kathleen,  Herbert  having  gone  to  some 
choir  or  guild  meeting  immediately  after  dinner. 

"My  dear  Basil,  to  what  other  end  do  clubs  exist? 
Gossip  is  a  human  necessity.  I  call  it  a  truly  Christian 
pastime  to  be  interested  in  the  doings  of  one's  fellow- 
creatures.  Is  there  no  gossip  in  Common  Rooms  ?  None 
at  the  Rag  ?  or  the  Atheneum  ?  For  my  part,  I  can  con- 
ceive of  no  civilized  state  of  society  without  gossip." 

Basil  walked  up  and  down,  after  the  custom  of  the 
human  male  in  meditation,  passing  through  deserts  of 
shadow  and  oases  of  lamplight,  with  knitted  brows  and 
pocketed  hands,  to  the  serious  peril  of  various  little 
tables,  flower-stands,  screens,  and  other  modern  devices 
for  making  rooms  uninhabitable,  in  his  destructive  and 
short-sighted  path.  Kathleen,  gay  and  comely  in  her 
simple,  square-cut  gown,  that  disclosed  a  graceful  white 
throat  and  well-rounded  arms,  sat  by  the  hearth  and 
stitched  merrily  in  the  light  of  an  umbrella  lamp  at  her 
side  at  some  beautiful  church  embroidery  of  silk  and 
gold,  and  tried  not  to  mind  hearing  a  pet  china  vase  go 
over  with  a  crash. 


362  RICHARD    ROSNY 

"But  gossip  means  scandal.  Is  that  a  Christian 
amusement?"  he  continued,  apparently  unconscious  of 
the  tragedy  of  the  jar,  in  a  tone  that  convinced  his  sister- 
in-law  of  some  serious  mental  discomposure. 

"Gossip  and  scandal  are  not  the  same  thing,"  she 
replied. 

"Ronald  Musgrave  is  your  cousin,  Kitty,"  he  con- 
tinued, heedless  of  this  correction.  "You've  known  him 
all  your  life.  But  I  doubt  if  you  know  what  a  very  loose 
fish  he  is." 

"I  hear  so  little  scandal,"  she  replied  gently. 

"Why,"  he  went  on,  impervious  to  satire,  "is  he 
always  at  the  cottage,  or  loafing  about  the  cottage?" 

"To  begin  with,  is  he?" 

"So  scandal  says." 

' '  Or  innocent  gossip  ?  Well,  you  may  not  be  aware 
that  the  cottage  at  present  harbors  a  not  wholly  unat- 
tractive guest." 

"If  you  mean  Miss  Rosny,  she — she  is  not  remark- 
ably attractive — at  least  to  the  average  man." 

"Then  my  poor  cousin  certainly  can't  be  an  average 
man,  for  she  is  marvelously  attractive  to  him,"  she 
returned,  not  without  mischievous  intent;  "marvelously 
attractive.  He  pays  her  marked  attention.  He  is  always 
singling  her  out  and  making  her  conspicuous  by  his 
attentions.  You  must  have  seen  him  at  the  Barley  Mow 
the  day  of  the  meet.  He  seems  very  hard  hit. ' ' 

"I  hope,  I  do  most  fervently  hope,  that  there  is 
no  response  on  her  side,"  he  said,  viciously  kicking  a 
waste-paper  basket  from  his  path. — "I  am  convinced 
of  that,"  she  thought. — "His  attentions,"  he  continued, 
"are  an  insult  to  her.  I  have  long  suspected  it,  Kath- 
leen, and  now  I  find  it  a  matter  of  common  village  gos- 
sip. The  blackguard  is  actually  using  her  as  a  blind. 
Her!" 

"Basil!  What  can  you  mean?"  she  asked,  dropping 
her  work  in  dismay. 

"You  never  quite  hit  it  off  with  Rcsny's  remarkably 


SETH    BARTON'S   JAUNT         363 

pretty  young  wife,  did  you?  You  scarcely  considered 
the  marriage  a  happy  one,  either  ?  You  were  right,  Kath- 
leen. Good  women  have  an  instinct  that  detects  the 
faintest  shadow  of  evil,  and  shrink  from  it.  She  is 
immensely  to  be  pitied.  Her  husband  ought  not  to  leave 
her  so  much.  He  is  one  of  those  over-good  people  who 
ignore  human  frailty  and  expect  too  much  of  flesh  and 
blood ;  he  is  absorbed  in  a  thousand  things  and  blind  to 
what  is  going  on  under  his  very  eyes.  He  must  be 
warned.  I've  given  a  hint  or  two  to  Herbert,  but  he 
wouldn't  take  them.  Now  I  turn  to  you.  I've  seen 
things  with  my  own  eyes." 

"0  Basil!  you  make  me  sick,"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
can't  mean  that.  Ronald  has  been  fast;  he  is  careless 
and  pleasure-loving,  I  know.  But  oh,  not  that,  surely 
not  that!" 

"Can't  you  put  Rosny  on  his  guard — get  him  to  take 
her  away?"  he  asked,  stopping  and  looking  very  ear- 
nestly through  his  glasses  at  her  paling,  perturbed  face. 
"Women  can  do  these  things  delicately  and  tactfully. 
Besides,  you  have  an  influence  over  Rosny;  I  sometimes 
fancy  his  poor  little  wife  is  jealous  of  you.  I  don't 
blame  the  poor  woman — for  listening  to  a  plausible 
scoundrel.  She 's  one  of  the  handsomest  and  most  charm- 
ing women  I  ever  met ;  she  has  no  babies ;  she  is  young, 
and  must  be  conscious  of  her  striking  beauty.  Musgrave 
is  a  dangerous  fellow,  horribly  attractive  to  women,  and 
thoroughly  versed  in  all  the  wiles  that  turn  their  heads. 
They've  been  thrown  together — those  theatricals,  music, 
everything  has  combined  to  bring  them  together.  We've 
all  been  blind;  we  have  done  Miss  Rosny  the  greatest 
injustice  by  supposing  her  capable  of  responding  to  the 
— hm! — to  the  fellow's  insolent  advances.  What  could 
she  have  in  common  with  a — an  unlettered,  sensual  Phi- 
listine ass  like  that — a  man  of — hm! —  Kathleen,  the 
long  and  short  of  it  is  that  her  cousin's  wife  must  be 
saved  before  it  is  too  late,  that  Rosny  must  be  warned. 
Couldn't  you  tell  him  it  is  the  talk  of  the  village — give 


364  RICHARD   ROSNY 

him  a  hint  without  exciting  suspicion — tell  him  that  Mus- 
grave  ought  not  to  be  admitted  to  decent  houses?" 

' '  When  he  comes  to  ours  ?  You  have  strangely 
original  ideas  of  what  constitutes  a  delicate  hint,  Basil. ' ' 

"He  ought  not  to  come  to  this  house,  Kathleen,"  he 
returned,  with  a  gravity  that  made  her  feel  that  his  ill 
opinion  of  Ronald  was  based  upon  something  more  solid 
than  jealous  prejudice. 

"Ronald  is  only  here  for  a  short  time.  Is  it  worth 
while — supposing  that  what  you  say  of  him  rests  upon 
known  facts — to  make  a  breach  with  the  Chesneys  and 
perhaps  ruin  the  peace  of  the  Rosnys?  Don't  ask  me 
to  risk  anything  so  terrible  as  that,  Basil — me  of  all  peo- 
ple. I  wish  I  could  have  won  Evelyn's  confidence;  I 
might  have  given  her  a  hint;  she  is  the  person  to  be 
warned,  not  her  husband ;  she  might  be  told  of  the  talk. 
Nancy  must  give  her  a  hint;  she  trusts  Nancy.  I  will 
get  Nancy  to  speak,  but  not  to  Richard.  You  are  a 
bachelor,  Basil;  you  don't  understand  the  danger  of 
interfering  between  man  and  wife.  And  you  must 
remember  that  Ronald  is  Richard  Rosny's  early  friend 
and  former  comrade.  He  must  know  him  far  better  than 
we  can.  Have  you  anything  special  against  him?" 

"Only  that  a  woman  at  Plymouth  has  just  drowned 
herself  because  of  him.  It  was  a  connection  of  many 
years '  standing ;  there  were  children ;  the  poor  thing  was 
his  wife  in  all  but  name.  She  had  been  told  that  their 
relations  must  end;  he  was  thinking  of  marriage;  she 
and  the  children  were  to  be  pensioned  off.  So  she  threw 
herself  into  the-  harbor,  and  wrote  a  letter,  which  was 
read  at  the  inquest;  that's  all,"  was  the  grim  reply, 
which  petrified  gentle,  unsuspecting  Kathleen  with  hor- 
ror and  amazement. 

"Oh!  but  this  is  too  terrible,"  she  cried.  "And,  O 
Basil !  how  could  you  keep  anything  so  awful  from  us  ? " 

"I  only  got  the  paper  this  afternoon.  They've  been 
finding  coins  and  Roman  pottery  in  the  harbor,  and 
there's  an  account  of  it  in  a  Plymouth  paper,  side  by 


SETH    BARTON'S   JAUNT         365 

side  with  a  report  of  the  inquest.  Herbert  shall  see  it 
when  he  comes  in.  In  the  meantime,  give  me  some 
errand  to  the  cottage — a  note  to  Miss  Rosny — and  let 
me  run  down  with  it  at  once.  Kitty,  Kitty,  supposing  she 
lias  been  induced  to  listen  to  that  blackguard  ?  The  poor 
woman's  letter  alluded  to  his  approaching  marriage," 
he  cried,  with  a  break  in  his  voice  that  identified  the 
pronoun  with  Nancy.  He  flung  himself  on  a  sofa  and 
dropped  his  arms  upon  the  cushion  at  its  head.  "Wom- 
en of  intellect  are — after  all,  women,  and  often  as  easily 
beguiled — as ' ' 

"Basil,  dear,"  Kathleen  interposed  with  a  tender, 
pitying,  yet  glad,  little  smile,  "why  go  on  beating  about 
the  bush  ?  Why  not  ask  Nancy  to  marry  you,  and  have 
done  with  it?" 

' '  Why  not  ask  the  Queen  ? "  he  retorted,  pulling  him- 
self together  and  raising  his  head.  "She  has  a  life  of 
her  own;  she  wouldn't  care  for  a  solitary,  purblind  owl 
like  me — too  much  poetry  and  imagination.  Besides,  I 
can't  afford  to  marry.  And — you  know  her  people 
rather  depend  on  her." 

' '  That 's  her  own  affair.  Besides,  you  needn  't  marry 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  Ask,  Basil,  ask." 

"Do  you  think  she  would  ever  care  enough?  No, 
Kathleen,  it's  not  fair  to  ask  a  woman  to  wait  and  wear 
her  youth  out  on  a  chance.  My  income  may  be  as  good 
as  Herbert's;  that  is  indeed  the  case.  But  it  is  not 
income  alone — it  is  the  obligations  a  man  in  my  position 
has.  If,  indeed,  this  mastership  should  be  given  me — 
but  it  will  not,  and  truly  has  not,  been  conferred  upon 
me.  Idle  talk.  Give  me  an  excuse  to  go  to  the  cottage. 
Rosny  is  not  coming  home  to-night,  and  he  knows  it,  and 
will  doubtless  act  upon  it." 

"  I  '11  send  a  note  to  Nancy  to  come  up  the  first  thing 
to-morrow  and  discuss  this  sad  business  with  me,  and 
you  shall  bring  the  answer.  But  you  don't  deserve  the 
chance;  you  don't  really  care  for  the  poor  girl.  You 
are  a  selfish  old,  ease-loving  college  don;  it  is  nothing 
24 


366  RICHARD    ROSNY 

to  you  that  women's  hearts  break,  as  long  as  your  own 
petty  ambitions  are  satisfied  and  your  learned  leisure 
unviolated.  You  are  dwindling  into  a  mere  Dryasdust, 
Basil.  If  you  were  pricked  I  believe  you  would  bleed 
ink.  And  as  for  a  heart — well,  I  suppose  there's  some 
kind  of  mechanical  watch-spring  or  steel  escapement 
somewhere  under  your  waistcoat  to  keep  the  wheels  of 
your  system  going;  but  as  for  anything  that  can  feel — 
Pff!  Herbert  talked  of  your  putting  on  flesh;  you 
might  have  put  on  a  couple  of  pounds  of  manuscript  or 
half  a  stone  of  parchment — nothing  that  can  feel.  Poor, 
darling  Annis !  You  are  desiccated  into  a  kind  of  ambu- 
lant book,  heavy  as  lead  and  dry  as  chaff  and  crusted 
over  with  dust — a  typical  musty,  fusty,  crusty,  rusty, 
old  Camford  don.  Oh,  go  back  to  your  wormy  old  shelf, 
and  stop  there,  for  pity's  sake,"  she  said,  tossing  him  the 
note  she  had  been  fiercely  scribbling  all  the  time. 

' '  If  I  thought  there  was  the  smallest  gleam  of  hope, ' ' 
he  began,  apparently  much  heartened  by  this  wrathful 
outburst,  and  slipping  the  note  into  a  waistcoat  pocket 
as  he  backed  irresolutely  toward  the  door. 

"Oh,  go  away;  I've  no  patience  with  such  people," 
she  cried,  resuming  her  place  by  the  fire,  where  she 
remained  plunged  in  painful  reflections,  her  work 
neglected  on  her  lap,  until  Herbert  returned  from  his 
guild  meeting  tired  and  glad,  to  be  shocked  and  startled 
from  the  expected  peace  by  the  tale  she  had  to  tell. 

''To  think  of  that  man  on  Sunday,"  he  said.  "We 
hauled  ropes  knee  to  knee.  He  went  down  and  brought 
up  that  poor  fellow  at  his  own  peril,  and  was  nearly 
beaten  to  death  against  the  cliff.  He  was  quite  done  and 
lay  senseless.  It  was  a  gallant  thing,  Kitty.  And  this 
awful  tragedy  at  his  door!" 

Seth  Barton  was  scarcely  less  perturbed  than  Basil 
Mayne  by  the  discussion  the  latter  had  overheard  in  the 
King's  Arms,  although  the  substance  of  it  was  no  new 
thing  to  him. 

"Whatever  be  I  to   do?"  he  asked  himself  help- 


SETH   BARTON'S   JAUNT         367 

lessly  as  he  swung  out  of  the  club  and  stood  in  the 
unlighted,  hedge-bordered  street,  looking  slowly  round 
at  the  lighted  public-house  and  the  red,  glowing  squares 
indicating  cottages,  dotted  regularly  among  gardens 
and  under  dark  masses  of  trees.  "Whatever  sholl  I 
do?" 

He  stood  long  in  the  dark,  with  the  countryman's 
immemorial  patience,  sometimes  thoughtfully  scratching 
his  head,  which  was  well-covered  with  a  thick,  grizzling 
thatch  of  dull-brown  hair,  else  quite  still.  He  looked  up 
at  the  dark  immensity  of  the  sky,  all  cloudless  and 
spanned  by  the  shining  bridge  of  the  Milky  Way,  where 
the  Swan  spread  its  wings  like  a  cross. 

Hanging  over  the  church  was  the  familiar  splendor 
of  Charles'  Wain,  faithfully  pointing,  as  through  all 
its  various  turnings  and  inversions,  to  the  unchanging 
pole-star;  and  yonder  over  the  sea  glowed  the  proudly 
striding  figure  of  Orion,  his  jeweled  sword-belt  flashing, 
his  shining  hounds  following;  above  him  gleamed  the 
gentle  and  glorious  sisterhood  of  the  Pleiades,  and  far 
up  in  the  zenith  Cassiopeia  sparkled  in  lonely  majesty 
upon  her  glowing  throne.  Old  friends  and  dear  were 
these  starry  splendors,  guides  of  lonely  night-journeys, 
companions  and  timekeepers  of  weary  night-watches, 
witnesses  of  youthful  merry-makings,  of  Christmas  bell- 
ringings  and  joyous  home-comings  from  the  silent  belfry 
afterward  in  wind  or  frost  or  snow-stilled  air;  and  all 
their  shining,  serene  glances  were  bent  in  most  friendly 
wise  upon  him,  Seth  Barton,  village  carpenter.  He  took 
great  comfort  from  their  sweet  looks;  the  beauty  and 
majesty  and  great  peace  of  them  sank  into  his  mind ;  he 
was  calmed,  soothed,  and  uplifted  in  heart,  he  scarcely 
knew  why.  For  he  only  took  careful  note  of  them, 
drawing  his  inferences  of  weather  and  time  and  season, 
and  but  vaguely  savoring  the  sum  of  their  varied  asso- 
ciations. Yet  those  silent,  shining  ones  had  spoken  and 
given  him  good  counsel,  and  he  turned  and  went  slowly 
through  the  village,  striking  the  hard  road  with  iron- 


368  RICHARD    ROSNY 

shod  feet,  a  clear  course  of  action  firmly  shaped  in  his 
mind. 

Coming  into  a  little  fan  of  yellow  light  from  a  shop- 
window  under  deep  thatched  eaves,  he  stood  contempla- 
ting the  merchandise  set  out  there  with  gay  dressing  of 
holly,  colored  paper  and  tin  flags  and  little  drums  and 
tinsel  balls.  Sweets,  cakes,  biscuits,  penny  toys,  oranges, 
and  nuts  were  there,  with  dates  and  figs,  apples  and 
pears,  and  little  pictured  boxes  and  packets  of  sugar- 
plums in  tempting  profusion.  Also  gaily-colored  pen- 
boxes,  tops  and  marbles,  staylaces  and  stationery,  with 
dried  peas,  bacon,  cheese  and  mineral  oil,  Christmas- 
cards,  colored  picture-books,  treacle,  brushes,  eggs,  and 
twine.  He  stood  many  seconds  in  contemplation  of  these 
things,  though  the  charm  of  the  stars  was  still  strong 
upon  him  and  the  constellations  were  shining  unnoticed 
above  in  a  sky  that  revealed  fresh  treasure  of  stars,  as 
the  air  grew  more  and  more  transparent  with  frost. 
Then  he  opened  the  half-door,  the  clinking  bell  of  which 
summoned  a  buxom  woman  in  a  cross-over  shawl  and 
checked  apron,  with  the  whole  of  the  village  gossip  on 
her  tongue  and  a  cheerful  smile  on  her  ruddy  face.  He 
asked  for  chestnuts,  while  she  poured  out  a  stream  of 
sympathetic  comment  on  the  melancholy  procession  of 
coffins  that  had  traversed  the  road  to  the  church  that 
day,  with  deepest  relish  of  every  tragic  accompaniment 
and  mournful  expansion  of  all  suggestible  issues. 

' '  The  many  I  've  a-seen  come  in, ' '  she  sighed.  ' '  Tide 
mostly  casts  'em  up  in  Cove.  And  the  buryens  in  Wim- 
bury  church  lytten!  Fit  to  make  anybody's  heart  ache, 
and  that  ar  bwoy  of  ourn  purely  sick  for  to  go  to  sea." 

' '  Aye !  Nothen  wunt  stop  'em  once  they  be  took  like 
that,"  he  replied.  "Our  Jem,  nothen  wunt  do  but  he 
must  go  aboard  the  Britannia.  Good  night  to  ee,"  he 
added  rather  hastily,  at  a  mysteriously  pronounced  sug- 
gestion that  seafaring  men  were  apt  to  be  loose  of 
morals,  especially  when  gentlefolk,  and  had  he,  Seth 
Barton,  heard  of  scandalous  goings  on  in  this  very  Wim- 


SETH    BARTON'S   JAUNT         369 

bury  village.  "Volk  must  hae  summat  to  maake  a  to-do 
about.  One '11  rig  another  out  wiv  a  fullish  tale,  and 
tother'll  swear  'tis  gospel.  Volk  must  yoppul  about 
summat,  Miss  Burt.  Good  night  to  ee." 

"No  call  to  jaw,  missus,"  he  said  when  he  reached 
his  own  door  some  three  hundred  yards  farther  on,  and 
was  confronted,  on  raising  the  latch  and  stepping 
straight  into  the  bright  and  cozy  living-room,  by  an 
indignant  wife.  "I'll  tell  ee  all  about  it  somewhen  or 
other,  ef  ee'll  bide  quiet  and  gie  me  a  bit  of  victual. 
Taaties  be  all  done  to  a  snarker,  be  they?  Oh,  go  long, 
I  allow  the  pork  ain't  hardly  readied  itt.  I'd  leefer  hae 
it  nice  and  scrump.  Zett  down,  young  uns,  and  vail  to. 
Doan't  ee  glutch  the  victual  down  so  vaast,  Tommy,  do 
ee  want  to  chock  ?  Gie  en  a  clap  on  the  back,  Annie.  Do 
ee  know  what  vather  have  got  in's  pocket  vor  ee  all,  for 
all  what  knows  how  to  behave  ?  Aye,  mother,  I  sees  wold 
clock  vaast  enough.  Spears  points  to  haalf  paast  seven 
o'clock,  do  'em?  Middlen  right  he  be.  Stars '11  tell  ee 
'tes  pretty  nigh  haaf -paast." 

Six  cherry-cheeked  faces  of  graduated  height  circled 
round  Seth  Barton's  table,  at  which  a  bright-eyed  and 
somewhat  quick-tempered  mother  dealt  savory  food  of 
her  own  frying,  and  poured  fragrant  tea  well-sugared, 
with  sundry  grumblings  and  impartial  fault-findings  all 
round.  It  was  a  fair-sized  room  of  moderate  height, 
with  a  beamed  ceiling  and  blue-washed  walls,  hung  with 
framed  photographs  and  Christmas  number  colored 
prints,  and  furnished  with  a  dresser,  an  eight-day  clock 
that  ticked  with  soothing  steadiness  in  a  tall  oaken  case, 
a  wide-open  hearth,  upon  which  a  small  iron  basket  of 
coal  was  cheerily  blazing,  and  round  which  benches  were 
set,  plain  wooden  chairs,  some  pegs  for  hats  and  coats, 
and  two  windows  full  of  geraniums,  brightly  blooming, 
and  of  lemon  verbenas  diffusing  a  delicate  scent. 

A  gun-rack  ran  over  the  mantel-shelf,  which  was 
adorned  with  a  pair  of  brass  candlesticks  shining  like 
gold,  two  liver-and-white  china  dogs,  a  cow,  and  some 


370  RICHARD   ROSNY 

mugs  printed  with  a  "present  for  a  good  child."  Two 
of  the  chairs  had  elbows  and  high  backs  polished  by 
constant  use.  One  of  the  dearest  grievances  of  Mrs. 
Barton 's  life  was  the  absence  of  a  passage,  or  even  a  little 
porch,  to  screen  this  room  from  opening  directly  on  to 
the  road ;  but  Seth  loved  it  for  old  association  sake,  as  it 
was.  He  liked  to  sit  at  meals  in  summer-time,  with  the 
sunshine  and  all  the  life  of  the  village,  as  it  flowed  by, 
visible  through  the  open  door,  to  stand  and  smoke  on 
the  threshold  of  an  evening,  looking  at  the  stars  above 
the  trees  opposite,  ready  to  pass  the  time  of  day  or  dis- 
cuss the  news  of  the  hour  with  those  that  "happened 
by/'  and  all  the  time  to  feel  the  stability  and  comfort 
of  the  hearth  behind  him,  with  his  "wold  ooman" 
stitching  by  the  fire  or  the  doorway  at  his  side,  and  "the 
young  uns"  going  and  coming  and  frolicking  about. 

On  this  late  December  night  bunches  of  holly  and 
sprigs  of  mistletoe  set  among  pictures  and  crockery,  gave 
the  cottage  a  festal  air,  and  in  one  corner  there  was  a 
tiny  fir-tree,  hung  with  shining  colored  balls,  half  burned 
tapers,  tin  flags  and  an  orange  or  two.  Books  were  few, 
but  a  concertina  on  a  table  and  a  fiddle  on  the  wall  lent 
a  touch  of  poetry  to  the  homely  surroundings. 

Little  was  said  during  the  hearty  repast,  at  the  end 
of  which  the  table  was  quickly  cleared  by  half  a  dozen 
pairs  of  hands.  This  being  done,  the  paternal  pockets 
yielded  up  their  treasure  of  chestnuts,  and  each  child 
being  allotted  his  or  her  share,  they  crowded  round  the 
fire  to  roast  them,  eyes  shining  and  cheeks  glowing  in  the 
ruddy  warmth.  Then  Seth,  instead  of  lighting  his  pipe 
and  spelling  over  his  newspaper  in  his  elbow  chair  as 
usual,  followed  his  wold  ooman  out  of  the  room  on  some 
water  or  fire-wood-fetching  errand. 

"  I  be  gwaine  to  jant  over  to  Ingrestone, ' '  he  told  her 
in  a  low  voice.  "Don't  ee  set  up  for  me,  and  don't  ee 
tell  the  young  uns.  No  call  to  tell  nobody.  Lave  the 
door  on  the  latch  and  I  '11  queal  in  quiet  avore  morning. ' ' 

"Ingrestone?     This  time  o'  night?     Cain't  ee  bide 


SETH   BARTON'S   JAUNT         371 

till  mornen  light?"  she  asked.  "Lord  love  ee,  Seth, 
whatever  do  ee  want  to  hike  over  there  for?  Be  ee 
gwaine  in  cairt,  and  dark  night,  too?" 

"I  be  gwaine  on  Shanks'  mare,  Charlotte,  and  the 
job  I  be  at  wunt  bide.  Don't  ee  go  for  to  yoppul  all 
over  the  plaace  about  this  here.  Hyste  up  this  here 
cwoat ;  he 's  a  sight  too  little  in  the  earms.  Good  night. 
Let  the  young  uns  hae  their  chestnuts  and  be  abed  by 
half -past  nine.  Tell  'em  father  won't  be  home  avore 
they  be  gone  to  sleep.  Good  night,  young  uns,"  he 
added,  returning  to  the  warm  room  and  slipping  through 
the  door  before  Mrs.  Barton  had  time  to  catch  her 
breath  and  offer  any  further  objection  to  this  long  and 
lonely  night  walk. 

He  knew  by  the  space  the  stars  had  crossed  that  it 
was  half-past  eight,  before  the  church  clock  clanged  it 
out  with  iron  tongue  from  the  tower  he  was  approaching 
with  a  steady,  unhurried  step,  that  left  a  twinkling  spark 
as  it  fell  and  made  a  sound  that  seemed  to  surprise  the 
deep  silence  and  impart  a  deeper  loneliness  to  the  soli- 
tude of  the  untrodden  road.  Cottage  windows  still 
glowed  under  roofs  that  seemed  shadowy  and  unsub- 
stantial in  the  vague  starlight;  the  King's  Arms  was  all 
lit  up  as  before  when  he  passed  it  and  heard  the  buzzing 
murmur  of  voices  within.  Then  he  left  the  highway  and 
struck  up  a  rutty  lane  that  led  on  to  the  downs,  and 
began  to  take  the  keen  crystal  air  of  Wimbury  Waste, 
where  the  frost  ever  bit  deepest.  Here  he  lit  his  pipe, 
pulled  up  the  collar  of  his  rough  coat,  and,  plunging 
his  hands  into  his  pockets,  where  hot  roasted  potatoes 
kept  them  warm,  plodded  up  the  steep  and  slippery 
way,  the  stars  shining  down  as  if  in  benediction  upon 
him,  and  the  great,  gray  ridged  sea  beating  out  a  deep 
and  solemn  music  far  below,  where  broken  surf  from 
time  to  time  slid  up  over  a  jutting  crag,  ghostlike,  and 
melted  into  air  again.  Orion  was  behind  him  now;  but 
he  could  see  Cassiopeia  overhead;  when  he  could  spare 
a  glance  from  the  broken  and  iced  slope,  which  made 


372  RICHARD   ROSNY 

a  difficult  foothold  and  obliged  him  soon  to  stop  and 
breathe,  he  looked  back  toward  Orion.  Beneath  the 
bright  hunter  lay  the  sheltered  gorge  where  he  had  found 
Richard  crying  as  a  boy  years  ago,  and  where  that  noon 
before  the  funeral  he  had  seen,  as  he  climbed  up  from  the 
shore,  what  set  him  upon  his  long  night  walk — two  peo- 
ple together  there  who  should  not  have  been  together 
anywhere.  The  lighthouse  was  invisible,  but  its  broad 
fan  of  light  flashed  and  faded  over  the  sea. 

' '  Married  the  wrong  woman, ' '  that  had  been  the  Bar- 
tons'  verdict  on  Rosny's  wife.  But  of  late  both  Seth  and 
his  wold  ooman  had  been  drawn  to  Evelyn  as  they  had 
never  expected  to  be.  That  was  since  the  sharp  illness 
of  their  little  Tommy,  when  she  had  stood  by  the  child 's 
pillow  all  one  night,  and  done  what  his  mother  had 
lacked  courage  to  do  for  him. 

Thinking  of  these  things,  the  tired  laborer  turned 
and  put  his  best  foot  foremost  and  plodded  heavily  over 
frozen  waste  and  frost-crisped  turf  and  iron-bound 
road,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  under  the  freezing,  spark- 
ling stars,  past  cowering  beasts  and  huddled  sheep,  past 
village,  homestead,  and  coppice,  until,  half  an  hour  be- 
fore midnight,  he  brought  up  at  the  gardener's  cottage 
opposite  the  Pines  at  Ingrestone,  and,  striding  wearily  up 
the  garden  path,  threw  a  handful  of  gravel  at  the  dark 
upper  window  where  Gatrell  slept. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

IN   THE   GORGE 

SETH  BARTON'S  heavy  footfall  had  hardly  echoed 
away  into  the  stillness  upon  the  lonely  road  before  it 
was  succeeded  by  a  lighter  and  quicker  step,  and  the 
professor's  long  and  dark  figure  turned  in  a  contrary 
direction  to  that  taken  by  Seth,  away  from  the  main  road 
and  toward  Wimbury  Cottage. 

Here  his  pace  slackened  and  his  glances  became  alert, 
questing  in  every  direction,  lest  anything  might  lurk 
among  the  shadows;  he  even  tried  with  unwonted  cau- 
tion to  tread  without  sound,  though  that  was  difficult, 
for  the  frosted  grass  bordering  the  lane  rustled  icily 
and  the  hard  lane  rang  like  metal.  The  cottage  looked 
most  peaceful  and  homelike  beneath  the  star-bright  sky, 
the  white  radiance  of  the  Milky  Way  arched  far  above 
its  vaguely  outlined  roof,  and  glittering  Orion  striding 
up  from  the  south  sky  toward  its  front,  that  was  all 
dark  except  for  some  thin  lines  of  light  escaping  from 
windows;  most  peaceful  and  homelike,  he  thought, 
half  envious  of  the  still  and  secluded  nest  in  which  two 
people  of  similar  tastes  might  be  so  happy  together. 
The  dimly-seen  trees  pressed  round  the  house  as  if  on 
guard,  and,  as  he  drew  near  and  went  through  the  gate, 
a  voice  of  subdued  music  sounded  from  it,  gradually 
resolving  itself  into  the  heart-torn  strains  of  an  inter- 
mezzo of  Schumann — that  one  which  carries  all  through 
it  the  longing  despair  of  the  sad,  almost  distraught, 
melody — Meine  Ruh  ist  hin. 

The  professor,  usually  so  unobservant  and  abstracted, 
but  now,  by  the  guile  and  malice  of  the  blind  archer 

373 


374  RICHARD   ROSNY 

converted  into  a  suspicious  amateur  detective,  exerci- 
sing all  the  wiles  and  subterfuges  of  those  Red  Indians 
whose  adventures  had  charmed  his  early  youth,  stepped 
more  cautiously  than  ever,  ears  and  eyes  alike  astrain, 
and  crept  past  the  parlor  window,  whence  the  music 
came,  deciding  that  the  broad  and  emphatic  touch,  under 
which  the  pain  of  the  melody  became  more  than  ever 
poignant,  was  not  Nancy  Rosny's.  Might  this  wild 
music  be  a  sign?  The  linden-branches  swayed  lightly 
under  a  passing  breeze  that  rustled  dryly  through  some 
sere  leaves  clinging  to  the  brushwood  round  their  bases, 
recalling  their  "green  felicity"  in  the  summer  moon- 
light, and  the  wonderful  hour  of  music  that  had  followed 
the  open-air  dance. 

The  intermezzo  broke  off  abruptly  with  a  discord, 
and  there  was  silence  in  which  the  twinkle  and  flash  of 
the  innumerable  stars  became  almost  audible  above  the 
distant  surge  of  a  peaceful  sea.  The  professor  stood 
like  a  statue  on  the  doorstep,  peering  into  the  shadows 
massed  under  trees  and  shrubs,  and  looking  up  at  the 
splendor  of  the  sky  for  a  couple  of  hundred  seconds. 
Then  there  fell  upon  his  charmed  ear  the  soft  and  sea- 
like  music  of  the  opening  adagio  of  the  sonata  in  C 
sharp  Minor,  and  he  recognized  Nancy 's  touch,  and,  after 
a  few  more  seconds,  rang  the  bell  and  was  admitted  and 
shown  into  the  warm  parlor  full  of  soft  light,  soft  music, 
and  flowers,  where  one  young  woman  sat  playing  at  the 
piano  and  another  lay  in  a  deep  chair  by  the  fire,  the 
cat  purring  on  her  knees  and  the  firelight  drawing 
sparkles  from  the  two  swords  on  the  wall  opposite. 

All  was  so  peaceful  and  pleasant,  so  suggestive  of 
refined  and  elegant  domesticity.  Could  this  firelit  Eden 
harbor  the  rumored  serpent?  Village  folk  must  talk. 
And  yet —  He  thought  that  Evelyn  avoided  his  gaze; 
but  Nancy  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  with  a  frank 
and  happy  smile  when  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and 
looked  away  again  so  quickly  that  he  wondered  how  he 
could  have  called  her  unattractive,  even  to  undiscerning 


IN    THE    GORGE  375 

Philistines.  He  thought  her  dress,  the  simplest  of  gowns, 
most  becoming  and  delightful,  and  admired  the  life  and 
gaiety  which  shone  in  her  clear  eyes  and  sounded  in  her 
fresh  voice,  and  was  emphasized  by  Evelyn's  weary  face 
and  languid  manner. 

"You  are  tired,  Mrs.  Rosny?"  he  asked,  handing 
Nancy  the  note.  "I  ought  not  to  have  come  in,  tmt  my 
sister-in-law  wants  a  verbal  answer." 

"Hardly  tired,"  she  replied;  "only  bored.  Two 
lorn  women  badly  want  waking  up  after  a  long  day 
together,  with  no  gayer  incident  than  a  funeral.  Very 
dismal  functions,  funerals — nearly  as  bad  as  weddings. 
So  you  are  to  be  master  of  Goldenose?" 

"Really?  But  that  is  news.  What  is  your  au- 
thority?" 

"Lord  Randal.    He  had  it  from  a  Camford  friend." 

' '  Lord  Randal  ? ' '  echoed  Nancy,  looking  up  from  the 
note  she  had  been  crumpling  in  her  hand.  "But  when 
did  you  see  him  ? ' ' 

Evelyn  crimsoned  and  bent  over  the  cat.  The  pro- 
fessor hoped  that  the  tidings,  however  gained,  might 
be  prophetic.  "I  should  not  refuse  the  mastership," 
he  added.  "It  would  be  a  marvelous  stroke  of  good 
fortune — far  too  good  for  this  workaday  world.  It 
might  mean  so  much  more  than  its  actual  worth,"  he 
continued,  looking  at  Nancy,  who  colored  warmly.  ' '  So 
you  had  it  from  Chesney,  Mrs.  Rosny?  Do  you  know 
that  makes  me  rather  hopeful?" 

"Oh,  you  will  be  master  if  you  wish  it,"  Evelyn 
said  airily,  to  hide  her  vexation.  "The  next  step  will 
be  to  provide  a  mistress  for  Goldenose.  In  that  case,  I 
wash  you  better  luck  than  falls  to  the  majority." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  with  grave  simplicity.  "I 
should  certainly  make  the  attempt." 

"Will  you  tell  Kathleen  that  I  will  run  up  directly 
after  breakfast?"  Nancy  said  hurriedly.  "I  am  going 
home  to-morrow  and  will  take  her  on  my  way." 

"Going  home?"  echoed  the  professor  with  visible 


376  RICHARD    ROSNY 

dismay.  "So  soon?  At  least  let  me  escort  you — if  the 
roads  are  fit  for  cycling. ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  she  hesitated.  "I  think— I  mean — 
in  any  case  I  was  not  meaning  to  cycle  to-morrow." 

"Lucky  people,  to  be  able  to  take  pleasure  in 
cycling,"  Evelyn  said.  "I  wish  I  could.  But  it  is  so 
appallingly  hideous." 

The  professor,  feeling  badly  snubbed  by  Nancy's 
refusal,  said  much  in  praise  of  cycling.  ' '  I  know  noth- 
ing more  graceful  than  a  good  rider  stepping  easily  on 
to  her  wheel,  with  her  skirts  falling  naturally  into  place 
and  her  hands  lying  lightly  on  the  handle-bars,  as  she 
glides  rapidly  away  without  effort ;  except,  perhaps,  the 
same  rider,  erect  and  steady,  slipping  lightly  to  her 
feet  and  walking  beside  her  wheel  without  a  pause," 
he  added.  "Have  you  never  seen  Miss  Rosny  ride?  I 
admit  that  people  of  my  clumsy  sex  look  more  clumsy 
and  ungainly  than  ever,  crooked  over  handle-bars,  and 
heaving  themselves  like  so  many  sacks  of  coal  on  to  their 
saddles. ' ' 

"Nancy,  Nancy,"  said  Evelyn,  laughing,  "after 
such  a  tribute,  can  you  refuse  to  ride  to-morrow?  I 
couldn  't.  But  I  know  I  've  an  exceptionally  soft  heart. ' ' 

"I  should  be  in  such  deadly  fear  of  coming  short  of 
all  those  imaginary  perfections  and  less  than  ever  dis- 
posed to  ride,"  Nancy  maintained  cheerfully;  but  to 
show  that  her  heart  was  not  made  of  adamant,  granted 
the  professor's  next  request  that  she  would  play  the  open- 
ing adagio  of  the  sonata,  which  she  did  with  unusual 
taste  and  tenderness,  so  that  the  room  was  filled  with 
the  soft  rhythm,  the  wild  longing,  and  hushed  thunder 
of  wave-music  and  the  mingled  passion  and  peace  of 
the  vast,  calm,  moonlit  sea.  And  just  as  the  last  chords 
were  dying  into  peace,  and  the  professor  was  in  Elys- 
ium, a  joyous  bark  was  heard,  a  firm  step  sounded  in 
the  hall,  and  Rosny  came  quickly  in  with  a  rush  of  cool, 
sweet  air. 

Evelyn  sprang  up  with  a  suppressed  cry  and  start- 


IN   THE   GORGE  377 

led  face.  "You — you — you  were  better  than  your  word 
this  time,"  she  said,  quickly  recovering  herself. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  was  determined  to  get  home 
if  I  possibly  could  to-night,  though  I  scarcely  thought 
it  would  come  off.  To-morrow  and  next  day  it  will 
be  quite  impossible.  But  it  was  a  rush.  Hail !  Thane  of 
Cawdor,  or  master  of  Goldenose !  No  ?  My  authority 
was  Musgrave;  he  had  it  from  Randal  Chesney." 

"If  I  hear  it  a  third  time  I  shall  take  it  as  a 
prophecy,"  the  professor  said.  "But,  pardon  my  curi- 
osity, when  did  Musgrave  furnish  you  with  this  aston- 
ishing piece  of  intelligence?" 

' '  Why,  now,  of  course,  when  I  met  him  at  the  gate, ' ' 
Rosny  replied  cheerfully.  "Didn't  he  congratulate 
you?  Strange!  he  seemed  full  of  it.  And  having  just 
met  you " 

"  I  've  not  seen  him  since  the  funeral  this  afternoon — 
hardly  the  time  for  congratulations.  Besides,  I  had  no 
speech  with  either  Musgrave  or  Chesney." 

"Ronald  Musgrave  has  not  been  here  to-day,  Dick," 
Nancy  said.  "How  could  you  have  met  him  at  the 
gate?  It  makes  one  feel  creepy.  It  must  have  been  his 
wraith. ' ' 

"It  was  pretty  solid  for  a  wraith  and  limped  like 
life,"  Richard  said.  "What  the  dickens  brought  him 
to  the  gate  if  he  hadn't  called?"  he  asked;  and  then, 
looking  at  Nancy,  smiled  a  slow,  pleased  smile.  "Ah!" 
he  said,  with  a  mysterious  nod. 

At  first  mention  of  Musgrave,  Evelyn  had  turned 
from  the  group  on  the  hearth  and  gone  to  the  window  to 
arrange  the  curtains  and  exclude  a  fancied  draft,  which 
appeared  to  be  a  delicate  and  difficult  achievement. 

"Perhaps,"  she  suggested,  turning  slowly  back  and 
bending  over  a  bowl  of  chrysanthemums  which  seemed 
to  require  some  fresh  adjustment,  "perhaps  he  had  been 
dining  with  the  Martins.  I  like  these  deep  crimsons 
best.  I  wonder  if  they  are  difficult  to  grow,  Nan?" 

Two  grave  and  keen  eyes  surveying  her  through  a 


378  RICHARD   ROSNY 

pince-nez  detected  a  tremor  in  the  slim,  white  hands 
touching  the  flowers,  and  a  strained  expression  in  the 
beautiful,  weary  young  face  above  them.  The  voice, 
low  and  clear  as  usual,  expressed  only  a  normal  toler- 
ance of  the  commonplace.  The  professor,  in  spite  of 
the  keen  personal  raptures  thrilling  him,  had  a  pang  of 
pity  and  condemnation  to  spare  for  what  was  before 
him,  and  Nancy,  equally  preoccupied,  yet  received  a 
mental  photograph  that  developed  slowly  in  the  dark 
chamber  of  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  of  this  brief 
scene,  especially  of  a  wild,  hunted  look  in  the  eyes  Eve- 
lyn suddenly  and  defiantly  raised  under  the  mesmerism 
of  the  professor's  pince-nez. 

Next  morning  saw  Nancy  stepping  along  the  rime- 
covered  gravel  before  the  sun  had  melted  a  single  jewel 
from  the  frosted  boughs,  on  her  way  to  the  vicarage, 
with  the  happy  professor,  who  had  foregone  half  his 
breakfast  to  be  at  the  cottage  by  the  time  she  started, 
clear-eyed,  rosy,  and  gay,  her  voice  ringing  with  purest 
happiness.  The  professor  had  so  much  to  say  that  he 
wasted  the  few  minutes  of  the  quick,  brief  walk  in 
nothings. 

Could  she  not  put  off  her  return  till  the  afternoon? 
No;  her  father  wanted  her  for  a  special  reason  on  that 
forenoon;  he  expected  her  by  the  eleven  o'clock  train. 
Might  he  call,  then,  on  the  following  day?  Most  unfor- 
tunately that  day  was  engaged,  but  if  he  cared  to  call 
on  the  Thursday,  New  Year's  Day — why  not  ride  over 
to  luncheon  ?  Her  father  and  mother  would  be  charmed ; 
there  was  no  engagement  for  Thursday;  it  would  be  a 
good  beginning  of  the  year. 

Till  Thursday,  then,  and  good-by,  at  the  vicarage 
door,  and  the  professor,  forgetful  of  all  lore  but  that 
which  is  learned  in  ladies'  eyes,  and  of  all  ambition  but 
that  which  was  to  be  gratified  by  the  college  mastership, 
now  of  a  known  certainty  to  be  offered  him,  turned 
away  to  walk  off  the  excess  of  the  happiness  that  over- 
weighed  his  well-stored  and  well-disciplined  mind,  and 


IN   THE   GORGE  379 

to  consider  how  to  possess  his  soul  in  patience  for  eight- 
and-forty,  nay,  for  fifty,  hours — fifty  solid  hours,  each 
stuffed  out  with  sixty  mortal  minutes  of  sixty  seconds 
apiece.  What  fraction  of  man's  allotted  span  was  fifty 
hours  ? 

But  more  events  were  to  be  accomplished  during 
those  hours  than  he  had  bargained  for ;  had  he  been  able 
to  foresee  the  manner  of  their  passing,  he  would  have 
wished  their  pace  slower,  nay,  he  would  have  been  but 
too  thankful  could  he  have  stopped  the  clock  altogether, 
and  dwelt  in  the  agitating  joy  and  fear  of  that  most 
joyous  morning  hour,  with  the  face  he  loved,  all  bright 
with  health,  happiness,  and  intelligence,  vividly  pictured 
upon  his  memory,  investing  the  winter  morning  with 
magical  beauty  and  making  the  sea's  mysterious  music 
a  voice  of  unutterable  gladness. 

"What  does  it  all  mean,  Kit?"  Nancy  asked,  when 
she  found  herself  by  the  fire  in  the  sunny  dining-room, 
in  a  bay  of  which  Kathleen  transacted  most  of  her  winter 
morning  duties. 

"It  means  very  serious  mischief,  Nan,  if  only  the 
mischief  of  tongues,"  Kathleen  said.  "It  means  that 
these  two  are,  certainly  and  beyond  all  doubt,  often 
alone  together  and  secretly.  It  means  that  you  must 
stop  it." 

"  1 1  Dear  Kitten,  it  seems  that  I  have  hitherto  only 
made  things  worse  by  serving  as  a  blind  or  pretext — not 
a  very  grateful  part  to  play.  That  mystery  is  solved. 
I  could  never  conceive  why  the  wretch  persecuted  me 
with  such  studied  court — one  felt  the  falsity  all  the  time, 
one  always  does.  But  yesterday,  for  instance,  he  was 
not  to  my  knowledge  in  the  house.  Yet  Dick  met  him 
coming  out  of  the  gate." 

"Had  you  dined  together?  Yes?  And  dressed 
first?" 

' '  Ah !  Evelyn  was  absent  a  long  time  after  tea.  I 
was  reading.  She  came  in  at  the  dressing-bell — ready 
dressed.  She  had  been  trying  on  a  gown.  It  wasn't 


380  RICHARD    ROSNY 

worth  while  to  change  twice,  she  said.  Ah!  and  she 
scolded  me  for  not  going  to  dress  till  the  last  minute — 
as  you  often  do.  But  Richard  came  home  and  met  him 
two  or  three  hours  later.  That  doesn't  fit." 

' '  Nancy,  you  may  save  her.  No  one  else  can.  Don 't 
go  home;  let  me  telegraph  to  your  father.  Stay  in  this 
house  to-night,  and  go  down  to  the  cottage  presently. 
You  may,  I  fear,  surprise  a  visitor  there.  That  will 
give  you  an  opening.  But  in  any  case,  you  must  take 
the  bull  by  the  horns  and  tell  her  what  people  are  say- 
ing and  how  culpable  it  is  to  give  any  foundation  for 
such  talk." 

"Surely  Evelyn  is  not  without  common  sense  and 
knowledge.  She  must  know  what  is  decorous  and  usual. 
I  can 't  think  that  she  perceives  anything  but  a  somewhat 
warm  friendship  in  Ronald  Musgrave's  civilities.  Is  it 
well  to  make  her  suspicious?" 

"Suspicious!"  cried  Kathleen.  "Can  you  be  so 
blind  ?  I  think  that  she  never  loved  Richard.  It  was  a 
most  ill-assorted  marriage;  they  have  always  been  poles 
asunder. '  * 

"I  can't  think  this,"  said  Nancy,  deeply  distressed, 
after  a  long  and  thoughtful  silence.  "I  can't  think 
such  things  of  Evelyn;  it  is  too  horrible.  But  I  will 
stay  and  take  care  that  she  takes  care  of  her  good  name. 
It  may  be  that  she  has  been  thoughtless,  and  has  allowed 
him  to  go  farther  than  is  conventional,  treated  him  too 
much  like  a  brother,  and  so  has  excited  all  this  foolish 
talk.  I  can't  think  Evelyn  false  and  treacherous — and 
to  Richard.  No;  I  can't  allow  this  of  Evelyn.  But  she 
must  not  let  herself  be  talked  about ;  I  can  tell  her  that. 
And  this  dreadful  story  about  Musgrave.  I  think  she 
must  hear  that." 

"Herbert  and  Basil  think  so.  And,  as  they  say,  it  is 
no  mere  hearsay  report.  There  is  simply  the  poor  crea- 
ture's letters  read  at  the  inquest  with  his  name  in  black 
and  white,  and  the  fact  of  her  suicide  and  the  fact  of 
the  children  and  his  allowance  for  them.  Oh,  Nancy, 


IN    THE    GORGE  381 

however  charitably  we  may  think  of  Evelyn,  however  we 
may  minimize  the  causes  of  the  scandal,  I  fear  that  those 
two  can  never  be  happy  together.  I  am  so  grieved  for 
Richard,  poor,  dear  Richard!  Surely  he  has  suffered 
enough.  Oh,  yes ;  I  know  that  I  made  him  suffer,  Nancy. 
But  you  know  all  about  that;  I  could  never  have  made 
him  happy.  And  I  did  hope  that  this  young  and  pretty 
creature " 

"She  cares  for  him  more  than  you  think,  Kitty. 
Who  knows  but  this  may  be  some  childish  freak  to  make 
him  jealous?  He  is  undemonstrative,  she  exacting.  I 
think  somebody  ought  to  scold  Dick.  Ah!  Kitty,  you 
should  have  stuck  to  poor  Dick." 

"I  couldn't,  I  couldn't.  Oh,  Nancy,  you  know  I 
couldn't.  But  I  am  made  like  that.  I  did  care  for  him ; 
and  I  do  now  as  far  as  wedded  wife  may.  I  would  do 
anything  for  his  happiness,  Herbert  knows  that;  Her- 
bert values  him  as  I  do,  and  more.  Nancy,  how  can  a 
woman  betray  her  child 's  father  1  What  shadow  of  hap- 
piness can  there  be  with  any  other  man,  however  deeply 
and  wildly  loved?  To  be  a  shame  to  both,  a  hindrance 
to  both,  a  true  joy  and  help  to  neither?" 

"But  /  would  have  stood  by  him,"  Nancy  reflected 
an  hour  later  when  she  turned  back  to  the  cottage,  a 
sadder  though  hardly  wiser  woman  than  wrhen  she  left 
it.  "Kathleen  has  a  fine  nature,  but  it's  not  quite  as 
broad  as  it  is  high.  Was  she  right?  Then  I  would 
rather  be  wrong.  Well,  it  was  written.  And  who  shall 
judge?" 

The  cottage  parlors  were  empty,  the  house  silent, 
forlorn,  it  seemed  to  Nancy's  excited  fancy.  The  mis- 
tress, she  heard,  had  been  out  for  about  an  hour  and 
might  not  be  in  to  lunch.  She  had  gone  toward  the  sea, 
it  was  supposed,  and  certainly  alone. 

Thither    accordingly    Nancy    bent    her    steps,    with 

careful   surveys   over   gates   and   gaps   as    far   as   eye 

could  reach,  to  discover  the  graceful  figure  flitting  over 

the  familiar  paths,  and  with  much  pondering  over  the 

25 


382  RICHARD   ROSNY 

best  way  to  accomplish  her  difficult  and  delicate  mission. 
By  this  time  the  rime  was  melted  by  the  low  south  sun ; 
shadowy  lines  of  hills  and  brown  tree-tops  were  traced 
upon  a  clear,  blue  sky;  distant  horizons  and  hill-folds 
were  of  the  sweet,  soft  azure  so  suggestive  of  joy  and 
purity;  the  gentle  sea,  murmuring  its  secret  of  unutter- 
able bliss  as  if  in  sleep,  gave  back  a  deeper  and  clearer 
blue  to  the  sky's  blue  glance.  Through  the  mild  winter 
midday  pulsed  the  rich  song  of  a  thrush;  a  wren  war- 
bled a  thinner  but  almost  sweeter  strain,  rooks  had  many 
things  to  say  in  many  various  notes ;  white  wings  of  gulls 
fluttered  round  the  lighthouse  tower,  at  the  base  of 
which  foam  broke  with  a  sound  softer  than  silence. 
Here  a  purple  headland,  and  there  a  white,  blue-veined 
chalk  range  stood  far  out  to  sea  with  surf -silvered  foot ; 
there  a  great  liner  throbbed  over  the  blue  waste,  leaving 
a  white-streaked  furrow  and  the  shadow  of  a  smoke- 
trail  behind;  far  in  the  offing  a  bark,  full-set  with 
shadowy  sails  of  fairy-like  weft,  sat  as  if  motionless 
upon  the  lightly-crisped  wave,  and  there  panted  and 
puffed  an  ocean  tramp  in  fussy  haste;  else  the  sea  lay 
lonely  in  the  sunshine,  cormorant  and  sea-mew  brooding 
almost  imperceptibly  on  its  ridged  quiet. 

The  limestone  crags,  yellow  in  the  warm  light,  drew 
a  sharp  edge  along  the  pure  sky;  rich  brown  of  wood 
and  brush  glowed  beneath  them  set  in  various  green; 
russet  bracken  burned  at  the  head  of  the  gorge,  that 
broke  in  purpling  browns  and  yellowing  greens  with 
dark  gray  of  jutting  rock  and  red  sand  of  broken  cliff, 
down  to  the  ever-blooming  reef,  the  thunder  of  which, 
though  subdued  by  distance  and  chained  by  calm,  became 
with  every  step  a  deeper  and  richer  organ  music. 

The  joy  of  rich  and  pure  color,  the  harmony  and 
completeness  of  things,  the  charm  of  sound  and  sight, 
and  the  sweetness  of  pure  and  sparkling  sea-air  up- 
breathed  by  a  gentle  southwest  wind,  entered  into  Nancy 
and  made  her  warm  and  guileless  heart  leap  up  in  thank- 
ful adoration  to  her  Heavenly  Father.  All  the  perplexi- 


IN   THE    GORGE  383 

ties  and  strivings,  all  the  enigmas,  misgivings,  and  heart- 
searchings,  slid  away  and  vanished,  leaving  her  calm 
and  clear-minded,  with  the  heart  of  a  trusting  child. 
How  good,  how  fair,  how  clean  was  all  the  brave  out- 
ward show  of  this  world,  mere  shadow  though  it  was  and 
symbol  only  of  something  yet  to  be.  Even  the  great  new 
joy  of  that  morning  was  merged  and  sublimated  in  this 
high  serenity  of  pure  and  peaceful  nature,  while  as  for 
that  dark  possibility  of  treachery  and  wrong-doing  in 
the  near  and  the  dear,  surely  that  could  not  be;  it  was 
too  improbable  a  dissonance  in  the  grand  all-embracing 
harmony.  Yet  she  had  studied  S.  Augustine  as  well  as 
Plato,  and  ought  to  have  known  the  sharp  contrast 
between  the  moral  and  physical  worlds.  She  roused 
herself  from  a  happy  trance  of  nature  magic  to  look  in 
every  known  haunt  for  a  figure  in  a  moss-green,  or  dark- 
gray  coat  and  skirt,  but  in  all  her  walk  had  seen  only 
village  children  dancing  on  errands,  laborers  mending 
hedges,  and  striding  after  the  plow  on  upland  furrows, 
a  smart  coast-guardsman,  and  a  fisherman  in  a  blue  jer- 
sey. Truly  the  place  was  solitary  and  Evelyn's  life 
dull ;  Nancy  would  not  for  all  her  joy  in  natural  beauty 
like  to  live  so  remote,  even  with  the  bicycle  Evelyn 
contemned.  Yet  with  books  and  duties,  and  a  kindred 
spirit  by  one's  side — we  all  have  our  ideals  of  hap- 
piness. 

Nancy's  healthy  pulses  leaped  with  exquisite  joy; 
she  bounded  down  the  broken  side  of  the  cliff  and  saw 
the  clean,  golden  brown  shingle  appear  and  disappear 
under  the  curving  white  surf.  She  had  forgotten  to 
ascertain  the  whereabouts  of  Rollo,  who  would  not  fail 
to  appear  if  he  were  with  his  mistress.  She  had  reached 
the  little  ledge  near  the  favorite  nook  in  the  cliff  where 
Richard  had  sobbed  out  his  first  grief,  and  where  Ronald 
Musgrave  once  heard  the  recitation  of  ' '  Oh,  let  the  solid 
ground."  The  branchy  screen  was  thinner  now,  the 
leaves  being  off;  the  soft,  south  breeze  carried  every 
faintest  sigh  up  the  cliff,  and  Nancy  was  suddenly 


384  RICHARD    ROSNY 

stopped,  petrified  by  the  sound  of  voices,  of  two  voices 
vibrant  and  incautious  with  emotion. 

There  was  quick,  confused  interchange  of  question 
and  answer  before  the  bewildered  listener  made  out  dis- 
tinctly in  the  fine  baritone  she  recognized:  ''Till  five, 
then,  dearest.  The  pier  station,  well  understood.  Make 
the  flyman  bring  you  as  near  as  possible  and  keep  in 
the  waiting-room  till  the  last  minute.  Then  a  reserved 
first-class — marked  reserved,  remember — will  open  at 
your  touch;  the  veil  won't  deceive  me.  Till  five  o'clock, 
darling. ' ' 

There  was  a  light  rustling  as  of  a  resisted  embrace, 
and  then  in  a  deeply  agitated  voice :  ' '  No,  no.  Not  yet. 
Till  five,  Ronald." 

' '  You  shall  never  repent, ' '  cried  the  man  in  a  passion- 
thrilled  voice;  "never.  Be  brave.  The  Rubicon  is 
crossed,  sweetheart." 

Evelyn's  clear  and  tremulous  "Till  five,  Ronald," 
were  the  last  words  heard  by  Nancy,  who  by  that  time 
had  sufficiently  recovered  her  horror  and  amazement  to 
turn  with  tingling  ears  and  aching  heart,  and  slowly 
climb  the  broken  path  she  had  so  lightly  descended  a 
minute  before. 

Evelyn,  little  Evelyn,  come  to  this !  Nancy  was  quite 
sure  that  she  had  never  known  the  depth  of  her  friend- 
ship for  sweet,  innocent  Evelyn  till  now,  when  she  found 
her  in  the  dust,  dethroned  and  dishonored.  Poor,  pretty 
Evelyn!  why  had  she  let  her  come  to  this?  She  ought 
to  have  seen  and  known ;  she  remembered  so  many  things 
now,  when  it  was  too  late.  That  was  the  secret  of  her 
renewed  interest  in  life,  of  her  apparent  content  and 
acquiescence  in  her  marriage ;  indifference  finds  no  fault. 
Why  had  she  been  so  blind,  so  stupidly  secure  of  Eve- 
lyn 's  impeccability  ?  It  came  of  living  at  college  among 
girls  and  women  in  the  cloistered  quietudes  of  life. 
Those  few  overheard  sentences  burned  themselves  in 
molten  white-hot  characters  into  her  brain  till  she 
repeated  them  mechanically,  slowly  gathering  their  full 


IN   THE   GORGE  385 

meaning  as  she  slowly  climbed  the  steep  way.  The  pier 
station  would  be  at  St.  Ann's,  that  was  clear;  the  five- 
ten  boat  would  catch  the  Waterloo  express.  But  whence 
would  Evelyn  take  the  fly?  Certainly  not  from  Wim- 
bury,  the  publicity  apart,  the  distance  was  too  great. 
Of  one  thing  Nancy  had  been  instantly  certain,  as  soon 
as  she  realized  what  ' '  till  five ' '  meant — namely,  that  the 
appointment  was  not  to  be  kept.  She  was  quite  decided 
on  that  point.  No  doubt  people  have  the  control  of  their 
own  lives,  and  in  a  free  country  may  if  they  please  go 
to  the  dogs  in  their  own  fashion.  Still,  Nancy  did  not 
intend  to  let  these  two  people  do  as  they  pleased;  she 
had  at  times  a  certain  slow  and  steady  and  invincible 
way  of  meaning  that  things  should  or  should  not  come 
to  pass — dogged,  her  father  called  her ;  she  had  no  right 
to  interfere,  she  knew,  but  she  intended  to  do  so  by 
force  or  by  fraud  if  necessary.  So  she  told  herself,  start- 
ing violently  in  the  midst  of  her  meditations  at  the 
sound  of  a  cheerful  voice  in  her  ear. 

"Well  met,  Miss  Rosny,"  it  said.  "And  Dick  told 
me  you  were  off  the  first  thing  this  morning.  What  a 
heavenly  day!  Did  I  startle  you?" 

She  turned,  ignoring  the  outstretched  hand,  and  won- 
dered at  the  cheerful  unconcern  upon  the  handsome  face 
well  shown  under  the  small  stable-cap  he  replaced. 

' '  I  was  going, ' '  she  replied  with  a  level  though  shud- 
dering gaze,  "but  I  changed  my  mind." 

"It  is  one  of  the  prerogatives  of  your  delightful  sex 
— a  charm  of  priceless  worth.  However  hard-hearted 
ladies  may  be,  there  is  always  the  hope  of  one  of  these 
changes  of  mind  to  buoy  one  up." 

His  dark  eyes  were  soft  and  brilliant  with  newly 
stirred  emotion,  his  voice  eloquent  of  it,  his  always  win- 
ning smile  and  charming  manner  made  that  a  homage  in 
him  that  would  be  impertinence  in  others.  Nancy,  shiv- 
ering inwardly  with  repulsion,  yet  looking  him  straightly 
and  somewhat  disturbingly  in  the  face  with  clear  and 
bravely  earnest  eyes,  fully  recognized  the  dangerous 


386  RICHARD   ROSNY 

fascination  and  irresistible  charm  of  this  handsome  and 
accomplished  man  of  the  world,  and  felt  the  powerful 
magnetism  he  must  exercise  over  such  a  one  as  Evelyn. 
"The  prerogative  sometimes  snatches  the  cup  from 
the  lip,"  she  said  with  grim  satisfaction,  still  looking 
up  in  the  face  that  was  courteously,  almost  caressingly, 
bent  down  to  hers,  just  as  they  issued  from  the  narrow 
path  upon  a  wider  ledge  covered  with  bracken  and  whin, 
and  caught  the  flash  of  two  angry  eyes,  as  the  professor 
crossed  their  path  at  right  angles,  and  without  pause, 
vanished  round  a  projecting  spur  of  the  cliff. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

GATEELL'S  VISIT  TO  THE  HEAD  OFFICE 

SETH  BAETON  found  that  the  work  of  breaking  the 
slumbers  of  the  laboring  man  was  not  to  be  effected  in  a 
moment  or  without  danger  of  cracking  the  window- 
panes.  The  sleeper  having  been  awakened  at  last,  it 
took  some  time  to  assure  Gatrell's  drowsy  wits  that  the 
man  below  was  neither  robber,  policeman,  nor  tramp, 
but  simply  Seth  Barton,  "just  stepped  over"  from  Wim- 
bury,  still  longer  to  convince  him  that  nobody  was  dead 
or  dying,  and  no  one's  house  or  rick  was  afire.  By  that 
time  they  were  both  half  frozen,  and  when  at  last  Gatrell 
lumbered  down  stairs,  dizzy  and  hastily  clad,  and 
opened  the  door  to  the  numbed  visitor,  the  fire  had  to  be 
lighted  and  hot  drink  brewed,  and  each  of  them  allowed 
they  were  ' '  pretty  nigh  shrammed  to  death  with  cwold, ' ' 
and  gladly  availed  themselves  of  comforting  potations 
and  hot  victual  quickly  cooked  by  Deborah. 

The  consultation  which  followed  was  long;  the  small 
hours  drew  to  an  end  before  Barton  set  out  on  his 
homeward  journey  under  the  vault  of  changed  stars,  in 
a  more  bitter  and  biting  cold  than  ever,  with  a  contented 
mind  and  tired  body,  while  Gatrell  returned  to  his  inter- 
rupted slumbers  with  such  hearty  good-will  that  Deborah 
could  hardly  rouse  him  in  time  to  eat  his  breakfast  be- 
fore taking  the  half -past  nine  train  in  fulfilment  of  his 
promise  to  Seth. 

The  nearest  branch  of  Belton,  Laking  &  Co.  was  at 
the  market  town  seven  miles  off,  a  branch  at  which  Rosny 
was  often  to  be  found  at  this  time  of  year.  Thither 
accordingly  Gatrell  went,  walking  into  the  office  almost 

387 


388  RICHARD   ROSNY 

as  soon  as  it  was  opened,  and  boldly  inquiring  for  Mr. 
Rosny,  who,  he  was  informed,  was  not  there,  nor,  as  far 
as  was  known,  likely  to  be  there  that  day.  It  was  most 
probable,  that  he  would  be  found  at  the  head  office  at 
Shackleton.  At  all  events  the  Shackleton  people  would 
know  where  he  was. 

Greatly  discouraged  by  this  failure,  and  by  the 
remembrance  of  work  that  ought  to  be  done  on  that 
particular  day,  and  by  doubts  as  to  whether  "that  ar 
buoy"  would  not  ruin  the  early  rhubarb  he  was  forcing, 
and  forget  to  open  and  shut  important  glass  frames  at 
proper  hours,  Gatrell,  who  could  count  the  occasions 
on  which  he  had  traveled  as  far  as  Shackleton,  was  yet 
elated  by  the  prospect  of  visiting  that  exciting  city,  and 
sternly  resolved  to  incur  the  expense  and  waste  of  time 
it  involved,  the  importance  of  his  errand  justifying  both 
the  extravagance  and  the  holiday.  By  this  time  the  wind 
had  changed  and  brilliant  sunshine  and  mild  air  made 
it  proper  holiday  weather,  inspiring  a  proper  holiday 
mood,  tempered  by  the  gravity  of  his  mission  as  well  as 
by  the  perpetually  recurring  doubts  as  to  the  advantage 
1 '  that  ar  buoy ' '  would  take  of  this  glorious  burst  of  sun- 
shine and  breaking  off  frost.  Resisting  the  attractions 
of  the  bustling  streets,  and  even  denying  himself  more 
than  a  passing  glance  at  the  nurseryman's  shop-win- 
dow, he  made  his  way  resolutely  to  the  station  and  caught 
a  train  that  caught  the  next  boat  to  Shackleton,  and 
in  less  than  an  hour's  time  was  gliding  over  a  sunny  sea, 
watching  the  white  furrow  fall  away  from  the  paddle 
and  listening  to  the  disjointed  chatter  of  passenger  and 
crew  as  either  passed  and  repassed,  his  pipe  well  alight, 
and  a  serene  enjoyment  in  his  mind. 

To  see  the  curving  land-lines  lessen  and  fade  upon  the 
sky  in  a  haze  of  turquoise,  and  black  and  threatening 
forts  loom  into  sight  on  the  sparkling  waters,  to  meet 
a  dainty  yacht  winged  with  azure-shadowed  white,  and 
smacks  of  various  rig  with  warm  brown  sails  spread  to 
catch  the  light  sea-breath,  to  glide  past  a  great  ocean- 


GATRELL  VISITS   THE   OFFICE    389 

liner,  a  towering  war-ship,  turreted  and  full-armed  there, 
to  watch  the  advancing  shore,  city-crowned,  dock-girded, 
grow  clearer,  and  to  creep  in  through  a  maze  of  masts 
between  the  hulls  of  vessels  great  and  small,  of  every 
rig  and  many  a  nationality,  was  new,  delightful,  and 
inspiring;  doubts  concerning  "that  ar  buoy"  slipped 
away  like  morning  mist,  and  even  the  grave  nature  of 
the  errand  to  Shackleton  was  forgotten  in  the  joy  of  the 
vivid  and  many-colored  life  throbbing  round  upon  the 
bright  and  still  water. 

Boom,  boom,  rolled  distant  guns  at  practise,  the  dull 
sound  growing  and  dying  away  upon  the  lightly  heaving 
sea;  throb,  throb,  wash-wash,  came  from  a  great  out- 
going steamer,  beating  the  still  harbor  waters  into  rolling 
surge ;  bells,  hoarse  shouts,  and  mellow,  melancholy  Yo ! 
heave  ho's!  rattle  of  hawser  and  chain,  creak  of  turn- 
ing crane,  scream  of  running  block  and  shot  like  sound 
of  loosening  sail,  with  shriek  of  steam-whistles  and  hiss 
of  engine,  overpowered  the  gentle  pulsing  of  oars  and 
sound  of  broken  water  everywhere. 

A  delightful  bewilderment  and  self-forgetfulness  fell 
upon  the  gardener's  simple  soul  as  he  staggered  over  the 
deck  to  the  gangway  in  the  surge  of  the  off-crowding 
passengers,  and  became  conscious  of  the  innumerable 
sounds  arid  sights  of  the  busy  and  thronged  city,  the 
spires  and  towers  and  bastion-like  buildings  of  which 
grew  out  of  the  sunny  haze  into  definite  form  before 
him.  Resolutely  grasping  his  stout,  thorn-knotted  stick, 
he  plodded  along  the  pier,  resisting  the  importunity  of 
cabman  and  omnibus  touts,  and  tramping  along  the 
strand,  where  nursemaids  lingered  with  their  charges 
under  bare-boughed  trees  in  the  sunshine,  and  made  for 
the  principal  street,  which  led  uphill  from  the  sea  and 
was  broad  and  gay  and  thronged  with  carriages  and 
fashionably-dressed  foot-folk,  shopping  and  chatting 
and  going  up  and  down  the  steps  of  hotels  and  clubs. 
The  marvel  and  richness  of  the  shops,  the  splendor  of 
the  great  buildings,  the  bustle  and  rush  and  roar,  took 


390  RICHARD   ROSNY 

away  Gatrell's  breath  and  kept  his  mouth  as  wide  open 
as  his  eyes,  while  he  plodded  heavily  on  in  his  country- 
made  Sunday  suit  and  thick  overcoat,  stemming  the 
jostling,  shouldering  human  tide  that  rolled  with  and 
against  him,  till  he  reached  the  ancient,  arched  and  bat- 
tlemented  gateway  that  barred  the  broad  street  and 
showed  the  city  arms  in  their  proper  colors  on  their 
carven  scutcheon.  Here  he  paused  and  drew  breath  in 
a  corner  made  by  a  buttress,  and  looked  rather  wistfully 
at  a  restaurant  opposite,  and  then  shaking  his  head  as 
if  at  a  conscious  tempter,  tried  to  forget  the  glamour  of 
the  gay  show  before  him  and  arrange  his  thoughts  and 
stiffen  his  courage  for  the  task  he  had  in  hand,  when, 
looking  at  a  gray  old  belfry  tower  giving  on  the  street, 
his  eye  was  caught  by  the  quaint  sight  of  a  little  crowd 
of  armored  men  running  out  beneath  the  clock-face  and 
smiting  each  a  several  bell  with  his  battle-ax  till  the  four 
quarters  had  chimed  and  a  giant  among  them  had  crashed 
a  final  stroke  on  a  deeper-mouthed  bell  and  the  hour  of 
one  was  echoed  musically  all  over  the  city  from  tower  to 
tower,  and  hummed  and  whistled  and  shrieked  in  all 
varieties  of  dissonance  in  factories,  docks,  and  harbor, 
and  the  side  streets  ran  black  with  workmen  hurrying 
out  to  dinner;  and  the  character  of  the  street  changed 
as  if  by  magic.  But  none  observed  the  miracle  of  the 
quaint  little  men  in  armor,  who,  their  duty  done,  had 
run  back  each  to  his  quarter,  leaving  one  little  warder 
with  lifted  ax  outside  on  guard;  nobody  but  Gatrell 
and  a  little  girl  wheeling  a  perambulator  had  so  much  as 
looked  at  the  entrancing  sight.  Again  he  tried  to  collect 
his  thoughts  and  steel  himself  to  the  seductions  of  the 
gay  city,  and  turning  and  passing  under  a  side  arch, 
made  his  way  without  pause  till  he  brought  up  at  the 
steps  of  the  pillared  brick  building  faced  with  stone,  that 
bore  the  deep-cut  name  Belton,  Laking  &  Co.,  Limited, 
upon  its  face. 

Now  Gatrell's  heart  began  to  jump  and  his  courage 
to  fail,  for  he  considered  the  nature  of  his  business  and 


GATRELL  VISITS   THE   OFFICE    391 

the  difficulty  of  putting  it  into  any  words  at  all,  much 
less  any  befitting  the  subject  and  himself  and  the  per- 
son to  whom  they  were  to  be  addressed. 

"Od,  darn  it  all,  Silas  Gatrell,"  he  said  to  himself, 
' '  be  ee  man  enough  for  this  here  job,  or  bain 't  ee  ?  Take 
and  go  on  with  ee,  for  a  zimple  girt  zote.  What  be  ee 
jackassen  about  all  day  long  for?  I  allows  you  won't  get 
no  more  zense  than  what's  inzide  of  ee  already,  if  ee 
bides  gaapen  and  gawken  about  here  till  the  devil's 
dancen  hours.  Go  on  in  and  get  shut  of  it,  do." 

To  see  Mr.  Rosny  was  a  daring  and  astonishing 
request  from  any,  much  less  from  one  so  humbly  placed 
as  the  simple  country  gardener.  He  was  told  that  Mr. 
Rosny  only  saw  people  by  appointment  and  on  business 
of  importance,  but  that  a  letter,  message,  or  card  might 
in  the  course  of  the  afternoon  receive  some  attention, 
or  it  might  not.  He  was  beginning  to  despair  of  gaining 
access  to  him  at  all. 

' '  I  tell  ee  I  've  a-come  to  see  en,  and  I  'm  a-gwaine  to 
see  en,"  he  said  at  last.  "I've  come  all  the  ways  from 
Ingrestone.  Will  ee  just  tell  en  Gatrell,  gairdner  at 
the  Pines,  is  come  across  the  water  a-purpose  to  speak  to 
en?  He'll  see  me  sure  enough,  if  you'll  name  me.  I've 
known  en  from  a  boy.  Tell  en  I  shall  bide  here  till  he 
do.  Write  ?  I  cain  't  write  no  zense.  Silas  Gatrell  from 
Ingrestone,  that's  who  I  be." 

"Well,  well,  your  message  shall  go  in,"  was  the 
reply,  and  some  ten  minutes  later  came  the  message  that 
Mr.  Rosny  would  see  him  if  possible  in  an  hour's  time; 
upon  which,  rejecting  advice  to  call  again,  he  stood 
patiently  waiting  by  the  door,  wondering  at  the  quick 
coming  and  going  of  the  busy  crowd  of  customers  and 
the  rapidity  with  which  piles  of  glittering  wealth  and 
bundles  of  bank-notes  changed  hands,  as  if  it  were 
pennyworth  of  sugar  or  treacle  over  a  grocer's  counter, 
and  the  lightning  speed  with  which  things  were  written 
in  books  and  on  slips  of  paper.  Where  did  all  the  gold 
come  from?  It  seemed  of  no  more  account  than  the 


392  RICHARD    ROSNY 

mold  he  was  used  to  shovel  and  cast  about  in  his  gar- 
dens; the  gentlemen  in  charge  of  it  shoveled  it  up  care- 
lessly in  a  little  scoop,  as  the  grocer  shovelled  up  tea, 
and  poured  it  out  prodigally  before  unastonished  custom- 
ers, who  pocketed  it  with  unconcern,  just  as  he  might 
pocket  a  twist  of  tobacco.  "Notes  or  gold?"  these  lav- 
ish gentlemen  asked,  and  people  were  found  simple 
enough  to  say  notes  when  they  might  have  had  gold. 

It  was  after  a  very  long  hour — perhaps  it  was  nearer 
two — when  at  last  he  was  summoned,  and  led  through 
halls  and  corridors  and  up  a  wide  staircase  and  along 
other  corridors,  into  a  small  room  scantily  furnished, 
in  which  he  was  told  to  wait  for  five  minutes.  Then  he 
heard  the  sharp  tinkle  of  an  electric  bell,  a  door  opened, 
two  people  came  out  of  an  inner  room,  a  second  bell 
sounded,  and  he  was  shown  into  a  large  room  with  a 
bright  fire,  and  there  at  last  found  Rosny  in  a  revolv- 
ing chair,  at  a  table  covered  with  papers  and  books  and 
various  things  to  which  Gatrell  's  imagination  could  sup- 
ply no  possible  use. 

"Why,  Gatrell,  this  is  a  surprise,"  Rosny  said,  look- 
ing up  with  a  kind  smile.  "Very  glad  to  see  you.  .  .  . 
But  I'm  awfully  busy,  and  shall  be  for  a  few  days.  So 
will  you  say  as  quickly  as  you  can  what  I  can  do  for 
you?" 

"I'm  come  over  to  bring  ee  home,  sir,"  he  replied, 
refusing  the  chair  indicated  and  standing  very  squarely, 
with  his  bare,  brown  hands  stayed  on  the  stout  staff 
planted  firmly  before  him. 

"This  is  sorrow,"  Richard's  heart  told  him  at  first 
sight  of  the  gardener's  face.  It  was  Adeline's  birth- 
day, and  yet  he  had  risen  that  morning  with  a  gladder 
heart  than  he  had  known  on  that  anniversary  for  years. 
So  much  that  he  had  felt  bound  to  do  had  been  accom- 
plished, that  the  necessity  for  excessive  toil  was  over- 
past, the  time  had  come  to  take  breath,  and,  after  a  little 
holiday,  settle  down  to  a  more  human  and  less  toilsome 
life.  The  conviction  that  he  owed  this  to  Evelyn,  and 


GATRELL  VISITS   THE   OFFICE    393 

that,  amid  so  many  people's  claims  and  interests,  hers 
had  been  in  a  measure  neglected,  had  of  late  been  grow- 
ing upon  him.  Always  it  had  nagged  at  his  inward 
peace,  but  in  the  conflicting  duties  to  which  he  was 
pledged,  Evelyn,  as  the  nearest,  even  as  a  part  of  self, 
had  been  in  some  measure  sacrificed.  The  family  respon- 
sibilities promised  now,  for  a  time  at  least,  to  fall  into 
abeyance.  No  boy's  debts  and  no  girls'  extravagance  at 
present  called  for  settlement.  Archie  had  unexpectedly 
steadied  down  to  learn  and  work  diligently  in  the  bank, 
Adeline  was  absorbed  in  her  approaching  marriage, 
Woolwich  and  Winchester  gave  fair  reports  of  their 
respective  students,  and  Gerald's  nervous  excitement 
was  lulling;  so  now  there  was  leisure  for  Evelyn's 
claims. 

One  of  the  firmest  principles  of  his  conduct  had 
been  to  touch  no  penny  of  money  in  Belton,  Laking  & 
Co.  beyond  the  simple  minimum  interest  of  his  patri- 
mony invested  in  it  for  his  own  or  his  wife's  use.  Nor, 
until  certain  philanthropic  aims  had  been  achieved,  did 
he  think  it  well  to  use  even  what  had  come  from  his  own 
private  enterprises  such  as  the  biscuit  factory. 

Thinking  these  things  over,  now  that  he  was  finan- 
cially and  otherwise  a  freer  man,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  pushed  his  principle  overfar  and  had  been  un- 
just to  Evelyn,  to  whom,  as  he  gladly  felt,  he  would  at 
last  be  able  to  make  some  amends.  She  understood ;  he 
had  explained  all  before  marriage;  but  it  was  hard  for 
her,  very  hard,  though  she  had  been  so  compliant  and 
uncomplaining.  Surely  she  was  one  in  a  hundred ;  surely 
no  other  young  wife  could  have  accepted  such  poverty 
in  the  midst  of  plenty,  he  thought.  On  New  Year 's  Day 
he  would  go  home — home  to  that  dear  little  quiet  hearth 
and  give  her  a  glad  surprise.  He  would  tell  her  how 
good  she  had  been  and  how  much  her  goodness  had 
lightened  the  burden  of  life  to  him ;  then  he  would  put 
a  morocco  case  in  her  hand  as  a  New- Year's  gift.  He 
would  watch  the  sparkle  in  her  eyes  when  she  took  out 


394  RICHARD   ROSNY 

the  glittering  gauds ;  he  would  clasp  them  upon  her  and 
admire  her  in  them ;  then  he  would  tell  her  that  the  time 
of  denial  and  restriction  was  past,  and  that  they  could 
now  use  the  interest  of  those  private  moneys  to  double 
their  present  income,  which  was  to  be  spent  in  any  way 
that  gave  her  pleasure,  was  indeed  to  be  entirely  hers. 
Then  they  would  be  much  more  together  for  a  time ;  and 
that  vague  barrier  that  had  risen  between  them  in  the 
stress  of  his  overbusy  life  would  fall  down  perhaps — 
perhaps.  And  who  could  tell  but  they  might  come  to 
understand  each  other  better.  These  hopes  had  made 
him  very  glad. 

But  Gatrell  had  certainly  come  for  sorrow. 

"To  bring  me  home,  Gatrell?"  he  echoed.  "But 
why  not  telegraph?  Is  it  my  mother,  Gatrell?" 

"No.     'Tis  home,  sir;  home." 

"Evelyn,"  he  gasped,  rising  from  his  chair  with  a 
nameless  terror  gripping  his  heart.  He  turned  and 
went  some  paces  through  the  room  before  he  asked  in  a 
dull  voice :  ' '  What  is  the  matter  1 ' '  forcing  out  his  words 
as  if  under  compulsion. 

"The  matter  is  this  here,"  replied  Gatrell,  with  his 
hands  still  firmly  crossed  on  his  stick,  "you  married  a 
woman  a  sight  younger  than  you  be  and  a  sight  bet- 
ter-looking than  most  and  she  wants  looking  after, 
sir." 

Richard  turned  with  blazing  eyes  at  the  word  mar- 
ried. "You  forget  yourself,"  he  said  sternly. 

"You'll  vind  them  as  forgets  theirselves  over  Wim- 
bury,  Mr.  Rosny, ' '  the  gardener  continued,  his  face  pur- 
pling and  the  veins  in  his  gnarled  hands  standing  out. 
' '  This  here  is  a  onthankful  job  as  ever  I  done  in  my  life, 
sir ;  but  I  be  a  true  vriend  to  ee,  as  here  bevore  ee  standen 
I  be.  There's  valse  vriends  out  Wimbury  way,  there's 
Judas  work  over  there.  There's  them  alone  together  as 
shouldn't  be  alone  together.  There's  talk  on  'em;  aye, 
it's  in  everybody's  mouth — the  naame  o'  Rosny  is  a  by- 
word. ' ' 


GATRELL  VISITS   THE   OFFICE    395 

Rosny  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  search 
to  the  very  marrow  of  the  gardener's  bones.  White  and 
still  and  cold,  he  stood  listening,  but  the  light  of  life 
went  out  of  his  face  under  the  gardener's  terrified  gaze, 
and  it  seemed  to  the  old  man  that  it  was  the  face  of  a 
corpse  animated  by  some  spirit  of  fierce  horror. 

"  It 's  a  lie, ' '  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  Gatrell  scarcely 
recognized;  "a  lie,"  he  repeated,  as  if  to  himself. 

"So,"  he  said  presently  in  a  more  natural  tone,  "so 
you  have  been  listening  to  some  senseless  gossip  from 
Wimbury,  and  have  come  over  here  in  the  middle  of  a 
busy  day  to  regale  me  with  it.  Come  now,  I  should  have 
thought  you  had  more  sense.  What  doited  old  woman 
has  been  stuffing  you  with  venomous  nonsense?  And 
what  name  has  she  been  throwing  mud  at?" 

"Ah,  Master  Rosny,  sir,  this  ain't  no  wold  ooman's 
tale,  worse  luck.  Seth  Barton  have  a-zeen  it  with  his 
own  eyes.  Ah!  and  he've  a-yeard  it  at  King's  Earms, 
and  a-give  the  lie  to  it,  though  he  known  it  was  true. 
You  come  on  hoam,  sir,  and  bide  long  with  her,  else  take 
her  long  with  ee  avore  'tis  too  late,  if  it  eddent  too  late 
aready.  Come  on  hoam." 

' '  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  "  he  asked  with 
dry  lips.  "You  can  not  mean  my — my — my — wife. 
You  can  not  dare." 

"I  allow  'tes  purely  haerd.  I  allow  I'd  liever  show 
to  a  mad  bull.  But  somebody  hev  a-got  to  tell  ee,  and 
Seth,  he  'lowed  he  wasn't  man  enough.  Says  he,  'You 
ben  a  vriend  to  en  ever  since  he  wasn  't  but  a  little  chap, 
and  you  be  older  than  what  I  be.  So  you  take  and  go 
and  tell  'n.'  So  I  ups  and  goes." 

"You  see  this  is  all  nonsense,  gossip,  slander;  and 
of  course  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  anything  so  prepos- 
terous," Rosny  said  slowly  and  with  restrained  agita- 
tion. ' '  But  since  you  tell  me  that  people  are  slandering 
my  wife,  and  since  of  course  I  can  not  allow  her  name 
to  be  slandered,  I  must  thank  you  to  repeat  the  exact 
rumors  that  are  being  circulated,  so  that  I  may — may — 


396  RICHARD    ROSNY 

stop  them.  The  other  name  ? "  he  added  with  ill-feigned 
carelessness. 

"Naame  o'  Musgrave." 

"No,  no;  not  that,"  he  cried,  dazed  and  shuddering. 
"Why,  Gatrell,  that  is  my  friend,  my — my — oldest 
friend." 

' '  Seth  hev  noticed  zummat  hwrong  ever  since  he  come 
along  in  the  summer-time.  She  simmed  to  perk  up  and 
enjoy  her  life  'long  with  he.  She  give  over  fretten  for 
the  child.  Then  she'd  steart  and  turn  hred  whenever 
Seth  come  across  they  two  up  cliff,  and  out  in  orchard 
or  vield." 

"  Ah !    So  Seth  is  the  liar,  Seth !    Seth  is  the  spy. ' ' 

' '  But  there  was  Miss  bideing  'long  with  her  and  volk 
said  he  went  there  for  Miss,  and  he'd  be  walken  'long 
with  she.  Then  one  wet  day,  December  time,  Seth  seen 
him  hid  in  gairden  behind  some  spars.  'Twas  duckest — 
the  day  was  sheltenen  in.  A  hour  later  Seth  went  back 
for  zummat  he  'd  forgot  in  gairden  and  it  was  dark  night, 
and  he  seen  they  two  in  parlor  by  the  vire.  A  zeen  what 
a  shouldn't;  a  zeen  'em  cuddled  up  in  one  another's 
arms. ' ' 

' '  Liar !  Spy ! ' '  shouted  Richard,  starting  up  and  sit- 
ting down  again. 

"A  never  zaid  nothen,  a  didn't  bide  spyen,  a  didn't 
gloat,  a  went  on  hoam  straight.  Then  Mrs.  Barton,  she  'd 
tell  en  how  she'd  come  across  'em  here  and  there,  and 
one  ood  talk  and  another.  Then  volk  begun  to  zaay 
how  Miss  wasn  't  only  a  blind,  he  was  that  craaf  ty.  And 
there,  volk'd  meet  'em  all  over  the  plaace,  down  cliff,  in 
Undercliff,  in  copse,  pretty  nigh  everywhere.  As  sure 
a  you  zeen  one  you'd  come  across  t'other;  they  was  a 
?ight  too  craafty  to  go  out  'long  with  one  another.  You 
mind  the  starm  Sunday  afore  laast?  They  was  in  Un- 
dercliff then,  hid  under  trees.  He  went  there  athirt 
"Wimbury  Waaste,  stearted  off  'long  with  Miss.  Miss 
she  soon  left  en,  and  he  went  over  to  Undercliff  and 
she  went  along  hroad  and  they  two  bid  together  in  'ood 


GATRELL  VISITS   THE   OFFICE    397 

over  a  hour.  Presently  she  come  out  and  goes  on  hoam, 
pretty  nigh  battered  to  death  with  the  starm,  and  Mr. 
Mayne,  you  mind,  he  took  her  hoam.  Musgrave  ee  bided 
a  good  ten  minutes  afore  he  come  out  of  'ood.  That's 
what  they  always  done — then  he  vails  in  with  coast- 
gaird,  and  goes  'long  with  they.  That 's  what  they  doos. 
And  Seth,  he  years  volk  a  yoppullen  about  this  here 
laast  night  at  King's  Earms,  and  a  sez  to  hisself,  a  sez, 
'This  here  must  be  put  a  stop  to.'  So  a  steps  straight 
along  over  down  to  my  plaiice  and  a  knocks  me  up  mid- 
dle o'  the  night  vast  asleep,  and  I  come  down  and  let 
en  in.  And  there  we  set,  Seth  and  me  and  Deborah, 
pretty  nigh  all  night  long,  a  say  en,  'Whatever  sholl  us 
do  ? '  And  vust  thing 's  marnen  I  goes  in  to  bank  to  vind 
ee.  Then  I  come  across  the  water,  and  here  I  be." 

Rosny  had  resumed  his  seat  at  the  writing-table  and 
sat  with  his  hands  clasped  on  his  knees  and  his  face  sat 
in  a  frown,  looking  straight  before  him  at  a  great  library 
ink-stand  on  which  a  stray  sparkle  of  sunlight  danced 
and  near  which  lay  the  morocco  case  that  had  played  a 
leading  part  in  the  pleasant  dream  that  had  so  cheered 
the  day's  toil.  The  lines  under  his  eyes  darkened  and 
sunk,  and  his  face  grew  sterner  and  stiller,  while  he 
listened  without  remark,  and  some  seconds  passed  before 
he  replied  coldly: 

' '  You  and  Barton  forget  that  my  cousin,  Miss  Rosny, 
is  staying  in  my  house." 

"No  vear.  Barton  he  said  Miss  was  to  go  home  vust 
thing  this  morning." 

"True.  I  was  at  the  cottage  last  night,  Gatrell." 
And  coldly  as  he  spoke  he  remembered  with  an  agony 
of  fear  and  certainty  his  encounter  with  Musgrave  at  his 
gate  and  Nancy's  surprising  denial  of  his  visit  and  the 
whole  mystery  of  Evelyn's  demeanor.  "Peacefully  at 
home,"  he  added,  "while  you  and  Barton  were  sitting 
up  in  the  small  hours  exciting  yourselves  over  absurd 
and  exaggerated  gossip.  I  am  quite  aware  that  Captain 
Musgrave  sometimes  walks  out  with  Mrs.  Rosny.  There 


398  RICHARD    ROSNY 

is  nothing  incorrect  in  that;  Professor  Mayne  probably 
does  the  same;  he  calls  at  the  cottage — such  visits  are 
quite  usual.  What  Seth  Barton  thought  he  saw  for  a 
moment  in  the  twilight  when  he  was  passing  the  window 
was  no  doubt  a  mistake — what  is  called  an  optical  illu- 
sion— the  firelight  and  the  shadows  danced  and  made 
him  fancy  two  figures,  in  reality  apart  and  probably 
shaking  hands  and  saying  good-by — touching  each 
other ;  his  eyes  were  dizzy  with  the  dark  of  a  wet  night ; 
he  had  no  time  to  correct  this  false  impression.  He 
meant  well,  no  doubt,  and  I  am  sure  you  do,  Gatrell.  I 
am  obliged  to  you.  Don't  think  any  more  of  this  silly 
gossip,  there's  a  good  soul.  People  must  talk  of  some- 
thing, more's  the  pity.  Now  good-by,  and  a  thousand 
thanks.  Go  and  get  a  good  dinner  now;  I'll  send  a 
porter  to  show  you  a  capital  place  and  you  must  let  me 
stand  it.  Buy  something  for  Deborah  and  give  her  my 
love  and  tell  her  it's  all  right;  nothing  but  idle  tales 
exaggerated.  Good-by,  old  friend,  good-by." 

"Maaster  Rosny,"  returned  the  gardener  earnestly, 
' '  come  hoam,  for  the  love  of  Heaven.  Come  hoam,  I  tell 
ee,  avore  it's  too  late.  Avore  that  Judas  have  carred 
her  off." 

"Have  done,"  cried  Richard  with  sudden  fury. 
"Judas,  you  say?  By  Heaven,  if  I  thought  that,  if  I 
had  reason  to  think  that,  I'd  strike  him  dead,  aye,  and 
her  too — I'd  strike  them  both  dead  without  pity.  Have 
done,  I  say,  have  done!" 

Gatrell 's  eyes  dilated,  he  clutched  his  stick  more 
firmly ;  his  chin  quivered  nervously  at  the  sight  of  Rosny. 
The  tortured  man  trembled ;  he  seemed  to  be  supporting 
his  shaken  form  by  the  hand  he  had  struck  violently 
upon  the  table,  making  glass  and  metal  shiver  and  loose 
papers  fly;  the  dark  purple  of  passionate  fury  clouded 
his  agonized  face  and  a  dreadful  fire  blazed  in  his  mad- 
dened eyes. 

"A  man  of  blood  do  spake  there,"  the  gardener  said 
slowly  after  a  little.  "A  man  of  heavy  hand  and  haerd 


GATRELL  VISITS    THE   OFFICE    399 

heart.  Avore  ever  you  come  anighst  they  two,  Richard 
Rosny,  down  on  your  knees  and  set  to  work  and  pray. 
Set  to  work  and  pray  as  though  you  was  hung  over  hell- 
vire  aready,  as  though  the  roke  of  it  was  nigh  to  chock 
ee,  as  though  you  was  like  to  be  shroke  up  with  the 
blaze  of  it,  and  as  though  nothen,  only  the  grace  of 
God,  could  hyste  ee  up  zafe  and  zound  agen.  Aye,  sir, 
zet  to  work  and  pray  agen  the  brand  of  Cain." 

Richard  looked  him  straight  and  steady  in  the  eyes, 
drawing  deep,  hard  breaths;  and  his  face  grew  ashen 
white  and  the  flame  in  his  eyes  dulled  and  sunk. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  wearily,  and  then  turning  to 
some  papers,  touched  an  electric  bell  on  the  table.  "I 
am  going  home  to-night.  Take  this  note  to  my  mother. ' ' 
Then  he  wrote  hastily :  ' '  Dear  Mother :  Unexpected  busi- 
ness prevents  my  coming  to  you  to-night.  I  will  try  to 
turn  up  to-morrow,  but  can  not  promise.  Never  mind 
Gerald's  megrims,  and  believe  that  only  most  urgent 
affairs  could  keep  me  away  on  Adeline's  birthday. 
R.  R. "  And  handed  it  to  Gatrell  as  the  bell  was  an- 
swered and  the  gardens  was  shown  out. 

Then  he  locked  the  door  and  fell  on  his  face  on  the 
floor,  shaking  and  shuddering  violently,  like  one  in  an 
ague  fit.  After  a  few  minutes  he  suddenly  sprang  up, 
consulted  time-tables,  wrote  half  a  dozen  notes  and  spoke 
through  a  tube.  Five  minutes  after  that  he  was  in  a 
cab,  tearing  down  the  street  to  the  sea,  over  which  a 
thick  haze  was  gathering,  shot  with  a  sunset  glow  that 
was  soon  darkened  and  quenched  in  the  fog  which 
wrapped  the  steamer  he  caught  in  gray  wet  folds  and 
obliged  her  to  go  slowly  and  feel  her  way  with  siren 
screams  and  extra  lights  and  fog-signals,  a  bewildered, 
unwieldy  monster,  startled  every  few  minutes  by  the  sud- 
den wash  of  a  vessel  under  her  bows,  or  its  light  upon 
her  quarters,  now  backing,  now  bringing  to,  now  turning, 
and  making  no  perceptible  way  through  the  gray  chilled 
confusion  that  ringed  her  round  and  blotted  out  the 
stars  above  and  made  the  very  sounds  from  the  shore 


400  RICHARD   ROSNY 

and  from  vessels  in  the  thronged  seaway  distinct  and 
dull  and  strange. 

Illimitable,  impenetrable  night  seemed  to  have  set- 
tled down  upon  the  solitary  vessel  and  shut  her  off  from 

the  inhabited  world  for  hours  and  hours.  And  yet  it 

was  only  five  o  'clock  in  the  short  December  day  that  had 
begun  so  brightly. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

ON  ST.  ANN'S  PIER 

THE  flash  of  fury  that  escaped  the  professor's  pince* 
nez  upon  the  cliff  acted  like  an  electric  shock  upon  Nancy, 
who  visibly  started,  while  her  companion  smiled  a  gentle, 
complacent  smile. 

"A  cut,"  he  said,  "a  most  determined  cut.  Our 
mutual  friend  appears  to  be  not  quite  happy  in  his  mind 
this  morning.  Upborne  by  a  serene  consciousness  of  my 
own  inward  rectitude,  I  am  convinced  that  you  must  be 
the  offender.  Own  up,  Miss  Rosny,  what  have  you  been 
doing?" 

Fury  beyond  expression  invaded  the  gentle  soul  of 
Nancy ;  she  thought  how  very  good  it  would  be  to  stand 
on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  above  Caster  Cove  with  this 
man,  and  with  one  vigorous  push  send  him  crashing 
over  upon  the  rocky  ledge  below,  where  the  stranded 
vessel  still  lay.  Hardly  conscious  of  her  words,  she 
turned  sharply  upon  him,  and  said  in  a  low,  fierce  voice : 
" Captain  Musgrave,  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

He  flinched  under  her  indignant  gaze  and  laughed 
uncomfortably,  almost  foolishly,  before  returning,  with 
his  usual  nonchalance:  "Much  as  usual.  Amiable  noth- 
ings. Awrf ully  good  of  you  to  care  to  know.  I  wish  I  'd 
done  something  interesting,  since  you  ask — discovered 
the  North  Pole,  or  something  like  that,  don 't  you  know. ' ' 

Nancy  wished  he  were  there  with  all  her  heart.  She 
again  looked  searchingly  and  disconcertingly  at  him, 
and  considered  what  vulnerable  point,  if  any,  there 
might  be  in  him  to  touch.  Her  glance  weighed  and 
found  him  wanting,  and  he  felt  it.  She  stopped  and 

401 


402  RICHARD   ROSNY 

turned  to  the  sea,  and  he  stopped  too.  "Pray,  go  on," 
she  said. 

"But  I  can't  think  of  anything  beyond  the  North 
Pole  that  might  interest  you,"  he  replied,  taking  her 
words  in  another  sense,  and  horribly  afraid  to  leave  her 
lest  Evelyn  might  come  upon  her  and  betray  herself. 
"What  of  discovering  a  fourth  dimension?  or  communi- 
cating with  the  inhabitants  of  Mars?" 

The  same  thought  of  Evelyn  coming  upon  them  sud- 
denly came  to  Nancy,  and,  finding  he  was  not  to  be 
shaken  off,  she  walked  quickly  on.  After  all,  it  was  use- 
less to  irritate  him ;  so  she  listened  to  the  cheerful  noth- 
ings he  poured  out  in  his  beautiful  voice  and  touchingly 
deferential  manner. 

"He  will  think  me  piqued  and  coquettish,  putting 
him  off  to  draw  him  on,"  she  hoped,  as  a  new  idea 
flashed  through  her  actively  working  brain ;  and  she  con- 
quered her  violent  repulsion  and  smiled  at  his  light- 
hearted  banter,  happily  unconscious  of  the  jealous  flame 
scintillating  from  the  unseen  pince-nez  of  a  man  emerg- 
ing from  the  shadow  of  one  of  the  rocks  scattered  over 
the  green  levels  of  the  undercliff. 

' '  My  way,  unhappily,  lies  over  the  Waste  to  an  affec- 
tionate sister,  who  is  heroically  waiting  for  a  last  fond 
luncheon  writh  a  departing  brother,"  Musgrave  said  at 
last;  "so  a  long  farewell." 

"You  are  going  back  to  Greenwich?  To  school?" 
she  asked  carelessly,  but  with  a  watchful  glance  at  his 
face,  the  expression  of  which  was  guarded,  though  vivid 
and  changeful.  "Pleasant  journey." 

' '  That  young  damsel, ' '  Ronald  reflected  as  he  climbed 
the  upper  cliff  under  its  shadow  of  feathering  wood,  "is 
capable  of  mischief.  But  she  suspects  nothing.  That 
little  huffiness  \vas  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove, 
pretty  Fanny's  way.  Sweet  five  o'clock!  Great  Heav- 
ens, five  o'clock!  And  it's  not  half-past  one  yet.  But 
what  the  deuce  is  that  girl  up  to  ?  What  if  she  fastens 
upon  Evelyn  and  stays  another  day  there  ?  Stuff !  Eve- 


ON    ST.  ANN'S   PIER  403 

lyn  will  know  how  to  shunt  her  in  the  sweetest  and  most 
artless  way.  Five  o'clock,  sweet,  sweet  five!" 

Nancy  turned  back  from  the  road,  certain  that  Eve- 
lyn would  avoid  it  and  take  the  field  way,  within  sight 
of  which  she  lingered  under  a  stunted  tree,  herself  invis- 
ible. She  was  soon  rewarded  by  the  appearance  of  a 
slim  figure  in  green,  flitting  along  the  sunny  path  toward 
the  garden  entrance  to  the  cottage,  whither  Nancy  shad- 
owed her,  making  certain  that  she  actually  entered  the 
house,  where  her  midday  meal  would  be  awaiting  her. 
What  if  she  followed  her  in  and  told  her  what  she  had 
overheard  and  besought  her  to  break  that  unhallowed 
engagement?  Reflection  convinced  her  that  she  knew 
too  little  to  do  this  effectually,  and  she  recognized  with 
a  sickening  heart  the  whole-hearted  passion  in  Evelyn's 
reply  on  the  cliff.  No,  the  first  plan  was  the  best.  So 
she  went  to  the  station,  whither  her  luggage  had  been 
taken  in  the  morning  and  where  it  was  still  awaiting 
her,  and  studied  time-tables,  making  notes  of  alterna- 
tive routes.  The  station-master,  presently  seeing  her 
at  the  table  in  the  waiting-room,  touched  his  cap 
and  wished  her  good  day.  "We've  been  expecting  of 
ee  all  day,  Miss,"  he  said,  the  luggage  waiting  on  a 
truck. 

"I  couldn't  get  away  before.  And  now  that  I  have 
lost  the  best  part  of  the  day  I  may  as  well  wait  till  eve- 
ning. The  luggage  had  better  go  into  the  cloak-room. 
You'll  take  care  of  the  bicycle,  Ringwood;  I  got  it 
punctured  once  at  a  station." 

"Aye,  I'll  look  after  he,  Miss  Rosny,  sure  enough. 
There's  ben  a  young  lady  asking  after  ee,  Miss.  She 
seen  the  name  on  the  trunk.  Young  Miss  Godfrey. 
She've  been  keeping  of  Christmas  at  Motford  Grange. 
She  seen  you  out  hunting  'long  with  Captain  Musgrave, 
she  said,  and  asked  where  you  bid  this  Christmas." 

"Oh,  yes;  Blanche  Godfrey,  a  college  girl.  One  of 
my  pupils  at  Casterford,  Ringwood.  I  saw  her  some- 
where— perhaps  at  church.  Then  you'll  take  care  of 


404  RICHARD    ROSNY 

the  bicycle?  I  don't  know  what  train  will  suit  yet. 
Good  afternoon." 

It  is  not  easy  to  conceal  one's  affairs  in  a  village, 
nor  is  a  small  railway  station  the  best  hiding-place  in 
the  world,  and  Nancy  had  excellent  reasons  for  avoiding 
public  observation.  She  therefore  took  a  secluded  path 
leading  up  to  the  top  of  the  down,  and  sat  under  a  bent 
thorn  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  and  watched  the  village 
approach  to  the  station  for  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which 
she  was  rewarded  by  the  expected  sight  of  Evelyn  walk- 
ing sedately  toward  it  with  a  bundle  of  wraps  in  her 
hand.  Just  as  usual,  Nancy  thought  with  a  shiver, 
daintily  gloved,  with  not  a  curl  astray  and  charmingly 
dressed  in  black.  She  must  have  passed  the  church- 
yard where  the  baby's  grave  with  its  little  marble  cross 
was  too  visible  to  be  overlooked.  Nancy  ran  quickly 
down  the  hilly  path,  still  inconspicuous  while  she 
watched  Evelyn  into  the  station,  when  she  followed 
slowly,  taking  care  to  keep  a  good  way  behind  her. 

Evelyn  went  straight  to  the  ticket-office  without 
hurry  or  excitement,  with  a  bow  here  and  a  smile 
there  for  the  people  she  recognized  on  the  narrow  plat- 
form. Nancy,  keeping  carefully  behind  a  pile  of  empty 
casks,  listened  eagerly  and  heard  the  clear  voice  speak- 
ing to  Ringwood,  who  was  ticket-clerk  as  well  as  station- 
master,  asking  him  how  he  did,  and  receiving  his  answer 
and  the  customary  encomium  on  the  weather  as  if  she 
were  responsible  for  it,  before  she  asked  for  a  first-class 
single  ticket  to  Wycherley,  a  small  village  four  or  five 
miles  from  St.  Ann's. 

"Did  ee  say  single?"  the  man  asked  doubtfully. 

"Certainly,  single." 

"Beg  pardon,  ma'am.  I  doubt  I  be  someat  hard  of 
hearing  now  and  agen.  There,  I  be  getting  in  years. 
And  you  don't  often  bide  out  a-nights." 

Having  taken  her  ticket  she  went  to  a  sheltered  seat 
on  the  other  side  of  the  station,  and  Nancy,  waiting  till 
she  was  safely  out  of  the  way  and  herself  invisible,  went 


ON   ST.   ANN'S   PIER  405 

to  the  office  and  asked  for  a  second-class  ticket  to  St. 
Ann 's. 

"Mrs.  Rosny  have  took  a  first-class  to  Wycherley," 
the  station-master  said;  "shall  I  giv  ee  a  first,  so  as  ee 
can  go  'long  with  her?" 

"Thank  you,  Ringwood,  I  prefer  to  travel  alone," 
she  replied.  "No,  thank  you,  my  things  had  better  stay 
till  I  come  back.  I  can't  take  them  all  the  way  to  St. 
Ann's  and  back." 

When  the  train  came  in  Evelyn  entered  her  carriage 
without  delay  and  Nancy  was  able  to  find  hers,  the 
second-class  being  behind  the  first,  without  crossing  her 
line  of  vision. 

On  reaching  Wycherley,  Evelyn  sprang  quickly  from 
the  train  and  went  so  quickly  out  from  the  platform  to 
secure  the  only  fly  there  that  it  was  easy  for  her  shad- 
ower  to  follow  her  unobserved,  and,  standing  within  the 
building,  to  overhear  her  orders  to  the  driver. 

"Are  you  sure,"  Evelyn  asked  of  the  latter  with 
nervous  haste,  "that  you  will  be  able  to  drive  to  St. 
Ann's  pier  in  good  time  for  the  five  o'clock  train?" 

"Sure  as  sure,  ma'am.  Why,  Law  bless  ee,  'taint 
more  than  four  and  a  half  mile,  though  we  calls  it  five, 
owing  to  hills." 

"Five  shillings  extra  for  yourself  if  you  are  punc- 
tual, if  we  reach  the  town  itself  at  twenty  to  five.  Then 
you  can  drive  slowly  to  the  pier, ' '  she  added  with  increas- 
ing agitation. 

"Right  you  are,"  he  replied  cheerfully,  shutting  her 
into  the  closed  fly,  behind  which  Nancy  had  darted, 
making  a  sign  to  the  man,  who,  thinking  something  was 
dropped  or  broken  there,  followed  her  to  the  rear  of  the 
carriage. 

"That  young  lady,  she  is  very  young,"  she  said  in 
a  low  voice,  pointing  to  the  fly,  "must  not  reach  St. 
Ann's  pier-head  'before  half-past  five.  The  horse  must 
pick  up  a  stone  or  fall  down,  or  lose  his  way.  An  extra 
sovereign  for  you  if  you  can't  arrive  till  half-past  five. 


406  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Quick !  Is  it  done  ? ' '  she  added,  pressing  a  shilling  into 
his  hand. 

"Make  it  two,  ma'am,  can't  ee?" 

"Two,  then,"  she  said,  dashing  back  just  in  time 
to  spring  into  the  already  moving  train. 

She  reached  St.  Ann's  at  half -past  four  and  looked 
out  on  a  calm,  blue-gray  sea  stained  with  red  and  yellow 
sunsetting,  with  a  madly  beating  heart  and  serious 
doubts  as  to  whether  she  had  done  well.  She  had  orig- 
inally intended  to  get  into  Evelyn's  fly,  and  there, 
refusing  to  leave  her,  to  implore  her  to  think  better  of 
the  frightful  act  she  was  contemplating  and  go  home 
before  it  was  too  late;  but  Evelyn's  offered  reward  to 
the  flyman  and  her  own  ebbing  courage  suggested  a  more 
high-handed  and  effectual  proceeding,  which,  if  it  failed, 
would  fail  more  completely.  Nancy  now  began  to  trem- 
ble and  to  feel  faint,  as  the  horror  of  Evelyn's  situation 
and  her  own  impotence  and  rashness  grew  upon  her,  and 
she  felt  herself  less  and  less  competent  to  do  battle  with 
this  wild  confusion  of  treachery  and  misery.  Surely  it 
was  not  too  late?  At  least  she  would  do  her  utmost. 

She  had  eaten  nothing  since  breakfast — breakfast 
that  very  morning  in  apparent  peace  and  contentment 
with  that  tragically  divided  husband  and  wife,  whose 
wedded  life  had  reached  a  crisis  so  terrible.  She  needed 
every  power  of  mind  and  body  to  contend  single-handed 
with  those  two  and  balk  them  at  the  very  foaming  flood- 
tide  of  their  passion,  without  any  warrant  or  authority 
or  justification  beyond  her  own  simple  sense  of  rectitude 
and  desire  for  the  happiness  of  the  husband  and  wife; 
she  wondered  how  she  could  dare  to  throw  herself  be- 
tween that  erring  pair. 

A  visit  to  the  refreshment-room  put  her  in  better  case. 
She  went  to  a  mirror  in  a  waiting-room  and  compared 
her  appearance  with  Evelyn's.  They  were  about  the 
same  height,  but  Annis  was  of  sturdier  build,  her  hair 
some  shades  lighter,  her  face  and  bearing  and  the  set  of 
her  head  entirely  different.  Happily,  she  was  in  black, 


ON   ST.   ANN'S   PIER  407 

and  wearing  a  hat  such  as  Evelyn  or  any  other  young 
woman  might  have  worn,  and  she  had  bought  just  such 
a  bunch  of  geranium-leaves  as  she  had  observed  in  Eve- 
lyn's coat  at  the  florist's  stall  on  the  pier.  With  fingers 
that  no  longer  trembled  she  pinned  a  thick  veil  over  her 
face,  effectually  concealing  all  but  the  vaguest  outline, 
whence  overbright  eyes  gleamed  fitfully;  she  held  her 
head  high  as  Evelyn  did,  and  tried  to  convert  her  own 
quick  and  rather  long  step  to  the  grace  of  Evelyn's 
inimitable  walk.  She  trusted  much  to  the  uncertain 
lights ;  dusk  had  closed  suddenly  upon  the  ruddy  sunset ; 
the  last  western  lights  were  quenched  in  the  thick-rolling 
channel  mists  that  held  Richard  hidden  in  their  chill 
folds,  which,  seen  from  St.  Ann's,  were  as  a  wall  of 
darkness  moving  upon  the  sea. 

It  was  upon  the  stroke  of  five ;  the  train,  a  little  late, 
was  not  yet  signaled,  when  Nancy  stood  veiled  at  the 
entrance  to  the  station,  which  was  inadequately  lighted 
with  ordinary  yellow  gas,  trembling  at  every  wheel  that 
rumbled  by,  considering  how  slender  was  her  hold  upon 
the  faith  and  unfaith  of  the  much-tempted  flyman,  and 
wondering  if,  after  all,  Evelyn  would  succeed  in  keep- 
ing her  unhallowed  tryst. 

Yet  her  heart  beat  less  quickly  than  Konald  Mus- 
grave's,  and  her  conjectures  as  to  Evelyn's  arrival  at  the 
appointed  hour  were  less  anxious  than  his,  though  he  told 
himself  again  and  again  that  she  could  not  fail  him  now, 
however  faint  of  heart  she  might  be,  now  that  she  had 
gone  so  far  and  committed  herself  so  irretrievably.  He 
knew  well  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  it  was  but  the 
lover's  immemorial  terror,  which  is  more  than  half  long- 
ing and  impatient,  that  was  thus  agitating  him.  He 
could  never  more  doubt  her  love  any  more  than  he  could 
his  own;  besides,  the  finger  of  Fate  was  in  it:  the  two 
were  so  distinctly  and  irretrievably  marked  out  for  each 
other,  were  the  victims  of  a  mutual  passion  so  over- 
powering, so  unusual,  so  unlike  anything  he  had  ever 
felt  before,  so  like  the  great  passions  of  story  and 


408  RICHARD    ROSNY 

romance,  the  elements  of  body,  soul,  and  spirit  were  so 
intimately  blended  in  it;  nothing  could  prevail  against 
such  a  love  as  that.  All  usual  ties,  all  accepted  stand- 
ards and  conventions  of  right  and  wrong,  of  honor  and 
dishonor,  were  as  children's  toys  and  nursery  rhymes 
in  the  presence  of  this  grand  and  masterful  emotion,  the 
very  resistless  force  of  which  justified  and  ennobled  it. 
Wrong?  Why,  it  was  the  purest  feeling  of  his  whole 
life ;  and  as  for  bringing  dishonor  to  its  object,  it  set  her 
upon  a  pinnacle  even  in  the  sight  of  man.  She  would 
bear  his  name — as  soon  as  this  miserable  travesty  of  a 
marriage  was  legally  annulled — her  beauty,  charm,  and 
intellect  could  not  fail  to  win  her  the  social  distinction 
she  deserved.  Domestic  joys,  from  which  he  had  shrunk 
as  necessary  evils,  to  be  delayed  till  the  decline  of  life, 
made  all  pleasant  vices  forsake  their  decaying  tenement, 
now  beckoned  alluringly  with  white  hands  and  angel 
faces,  and  stimulated  an  ambition  that  had  till  now  gone 
somewhat  haltingly.  From  early  youth  he  had  known 
sinful  pleasures,  but  never  before  had  tasted  such  a  cup 
of  joy  as  this,  ennobling,  not  degrading.  Yet  follies, 
irregularities,  life,  were  the  harshest  names  he  could 
find  for  those  earlier  pleasures,  educational  preliminaries 
to  a  full  and  manly  life,  yet  hateful  now  in  retrospect. 

Yes;  all  this  absurdly,  tremulous  emotion  held  no 
taint  of  doubt  in  Evelyn's  faith;  it  was  like  the  terror 
of  the  bridegroom  on  the  chancel  step,  lest  the  expected 
bride  should  be  false,  dead,  suddenly  cold,  spirited  away 
by  some  absurdly  impossible  chance.  It  was  like  the 
"pride  of  the  morning,"  the  little,  pettish  shower  in  the 
forenoon  of  a  lovely  summer  day.  She  would  be  there  as 
she  had  promised,  at  sweet,  sweet  five. 

An  easy  and  natural  way  of  changing  plans  and  leav- 
ing the  Retreat  that  day  instead  of  a  week  later  had  sug- 
gested itself.  He  had  driven  light-heartedly  in  Lord 
Randal's  smartest  dog-cart  to  the  next  station  but  one 
to  Wimbury,  and  taken  a  better  train  than  Evelyn's 
to  meet  the  quarter-past-five  boat.  They  had  not  even 


ON    ST.    ANN'S   PIER  409 

been  on  the  line  at  the  same  time  together;  each  had 
gone  separately  and  without  danger  of  attracting  atten- 
ion  to  the  meeting-point,  where  hurry  and  bustle  and 
confused  lighting  would  insure  immunity  from  observa- 
tion in  the  wildly  improbable  event  of  Rosny  himself 
stepping  off  that  steamer  as  they  went  on  it. 

Yet  Musgrave's  strong  heart  throbbed  faster  and 
faster  till  the  train  rumbled  out  of  a  tunnel  and  hissed 
on  to  the  open  rails  by  the  sea,  which  lapped  pleasantly 
against  the  granite  wrall  in  the  dark,  and  breathed  a 
scented  freshness  in  grateful  contrast  to  the  sulphurous 
smoke  and  rancid  oils — the  tunnel  air. 

The  stoppage  was  but  just  long  enough  to  pick  up  the 
few  passengers  waiting  on  the  platform,  whose  luggage 
was  quickly  hitched  on  behind ;  porters  and  guards  were 
hustling  and  hurrying  people  in  and  out  of  the  train; 
Musgrave's  eyes  were  bent  steadily  and  eagerly  from 
the  reserved  carriage  of  which  he  had  an  inside  key  to 
the  entrance;  the  minutes  filtered  away,  he  was  in  de- 
spair, when  a  veiled,  black  figure,  wearing  geranium- 
leaves,  threaded  itself  quickly  through  porters  and 
paper-boys,  and,  after  a  second's  eager  survey  of  the 
first-class  carriage,  caught  his  eye  and  sprang  lightly 
and  silently  in  by  his  side,  the  rapid  rise  and  fall  of  the 
geranium-leaves  and  the  trembling  of  the  hand  he  held 
alone  giving  token  of  the  agitation  he  knew  she  must  be 
feeling. 

"The  dear  geranium-leaves,"  he  said,  lightly  touch- 
ing them  when  he  released  the  trembling  hand  with  a 
final  pressure ;  "they  breathe  the  music  of  our  own  divine 
sonata. ' ' 

Click,  snap  !  ' '  Tick  'ts,  please ! ' '  the  intrusion  of  a 
rough  but  honest  human  paw,  and  a  rough  but  kindly 
human  face  inside  the  window  ended  the  rhapsody  some- 
what abruptly,  and  evoked  a  few  hearty  but  low- 
breathed  swear-words,  while  wrong  pockets  were  hur- 
riedly and  vainly  searched  for  two  tickets  finally  discov- 
ered in  the  flap  of  a  Gladstone  bag. 


410  RICHARD    ROSNY 

Click,  click,  lang !  click,  snap  !  ' '  Thank  Heaven  the 
beast  is  gone,"  from  the  impassioned  lover,  a  steam 
shriek,  half  a  dozen  disgusted  grunts  from  a  swart  mon- 
ster panting  smoke  ahead,  the  clank  of  couplers  and 
groan  of  iron  upon  iron,  and  they  were  gliding  smoothly 
along  above  the  calm  sea. 

' '  Safe  at  last ! "  he  exclaimed  in  the  richest  music  of 
tenderness.  ' '  Darling ! ' ' 

"Not  yet,  not  quite,"  said  a  voice  that  made  him 
start  with  a  muttered  imprecation;  "she  can  not  keep 
the  appointment." 

"Who  the  devil —  What  damned  trickery  is  this?" 
he  cried  fiercely,  when  Nancy  removed  the  veil  and 
looked  him  straightly  and  scornfully  in  the  face  under 
the  dim  nicker  of  the  lamp.  "  Where  is  she?  What 
have  you  done  with  her?" 

"Far  away  and  unable  to  come.  More  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  tell,"  Nancy  replied  coolly.  "Captain  Mus- 
grave,  do  you  think  that  any  woman,  however  infatuated 
and  deluded  and  wrought  upon  by  the  contagion  of  un- 
hallowed passion,  could  trust  herself  to  such  as  you,  after 
what  came  out  at  that  inquest?" 

' '  What  inquest  ?  Are  you  insane,  or  dreaming  ? "  he 
asked,  regaining  self-control. 

"The  inquest  on  Mabel  Weston,  reported  in  the 
Western  Morning  News  of  Saturday,"  she  said.  "In 
her  letter,  written  before  the  terrible  death  she  sought 
in  her  despair  at  your  desertion  and  proposed  marriage 
to  another  woman,  she  says  that  you  have  been  for  many 
years  her  husband  in  all  but  name;  she  speaks  of  your 
children — surely  that  is  enough,  without  the  tragedy  of 
the  suicide,  to  disenchant  any  woman  who  may  other- 
wise have  loved  you  to  her  undoing." 

"This  must  be  a  bad  dream,"  he  muttered  heavily. 
"Mabel  is  not  dead.  I  heard  from  her —  '  he  swept 
the  mists  from  his  dizzied  eyes  and  looked  with  haughty 
indignation  in  Annis's  face.  "Let  us  understand 
each  other,  Miss  Rosny,"  he  said  coldly.  "This  is  a 


ON   ST.  ANN'S   PIER  411 

somewhat  singular  adventure  for  a  young  and  unmar- 
ried woman — an  instructor  of  female  youth.  You  have 
— forgive  me  if  I  am  somewhat  brutally  direct,  the  occa- 
sion is  hurried — when  overhearing  something  not  intend- 
ed for  your  ears  this  morning  on  the  cliff,  put  a  wrong 
interpretation  upon  it,  and  interfered  most  unwarrant- 
ably in  affairs  that  do  not  concern  you,  and  of  which  you 
are  not  competent  to  judge.  Having  done  me  the  singu- 
lar and  unexpected  honor  of  personating  an  unnamed 
lady  with  whom  I  had  made  an  appointment  of  a  some- 
what intimate  and  personal  nature,  you  have,  no  doubt 
with  the  utmost  generosity,  placed  yourself  in  a  false 
position.  It  is  not  for  me  to  complain  of  that — far  from 
it.  You  have  caused  me  the  inconvenience  of  missing 
this  boat  and  the  express — that  is,  should  my  traveling 
companion  prove  not  to  be  in  this  train — nothing  more. 
You  will  easily  understand  that  when  people  have  made 
an  appointment  involving  important  changes  in  their 
lives,  they  do  not  renounce  it  because  they  happen  to 
miss  a  train.  My  friend,  whose  affairs  are  in  her  own 
hands  and  not  yours,  may  by  this  time  have  reached 
the  point  at  which  we  agreed  to  meet.  She  can  scarcely 
have  taken  an  earlier  boat.  Nor  will  the  world  probably 
end  to-night.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  you  have  meddled 
in  this  matter.  You  may  have  retarded  it  and  muddled 
it ;  you  may  have  brought  it  into  undue  prominence  and 
caused  the  deepest  pain  to  the  lady  concerned  in  it ;  but 
you  have  no  power  to  stop  it;  your  attempt  is  absurd. 
The  shortest  way  now  and  the  least  painful  for  your- 
self will  be  to  tell  me  where  she  is — though  the  end  will 
in  any  case  be  the  same.  You  are  but  a  girl;  you  have 
done  an  exceedingly  stupid  and  clumsy  thing,  and  you 
had  better  mend  it  at  once." 

"I  am  but  a  girl,"  she  owned  in  an  agony  of  fear 
and  supplication,  "and  I  may  be  clumsy  and  stupid; 
but  oh!  I  do  love  them,  I  do  love  Evelyn  and  Richard 
with  all  my  heart.  I  can  not  see  their  happiness  de- 
stroyed and  their  trust  betrayed  without  doing  all  that 


412  RICHARD    ROSNY 

is  possible  to  save  them.  Besides,  it  was  through  me 
that  they  knew  each  other;  I  am  in  a  way  responsible 
for  the  marriage.  And  it  was  such  a  happy  mar- 
riage  " 

"Happy?    Ah!  that's  good.     Happy?     Ha,  ha!" 

"And  they  needed  happiness — each  had  suffered  and 
was  lonely.  He  is  your  friend,  Captain  Musgrave;  he 
loves  and  trusts  you;  how  can  you  do  him  this  great 
wrong?  Think  better  of  it,  think  better  of  yourself, 
think  what  marriage  is,  how  every  relationship  in  life 
hinges  upon  it,  and  leave  them  in  peace." 

"Your  sentiments,  Miss  Rosny,  are  just  and  admi- 
rable, and  eminently  suitable  to  one  of  your  honorable 
calling.  They  do  you  credit.  Still,  I  must  ask  you  to 
allow  me  to  arrange  my  affairs  as  I  see  fit.  Here  is 
the  pier-end  but  no  boat,  thanks  to  the  fog.  Allow  me 
to  thank  you  for  the  unexpected  honor  of  your  com- 
pany. And,  unless  you  can  tell  me  where  the  lady 
I  was  to  meet  is,  I  must  say  good  night  and  go  on  the 
search. ' ' 

"God  grant  you  never  see  her  again,  Ronald  Mus- 
grave," she  cried.  "I  do  beseech  you  to  go  on  by  that 
boat — she  is  just  coming  out  of  the  fog-bank — and  leave 
her  and  think  better  of  the  crime  and  cruelty  you  were 
going  to  perpetrate.  Think  of  your  motherless  children ; 
think  of  their  unhappy  mother ;  picture  the  poor,  dead, 
despairing  face  floating  among  the  boats  in  Plymouth 
harbor  " — Musgrave  shuddered,  but  walked  steadily  on 
toward  the  ticket-office,  having  politely  handed  her  out 
of  the  train  and  bowed  his  farewell — "  picture  that 
face,"  she  repeated,  following  him  and  laying  her  hand 
on  his  arm  in  her  agitation,  "and  drag  no  more  trust- 
ing women  down  to  the  dust  of  death.  Tempt  my  Eve- 
lyn no  more ;  she  is  weak,  but  she  never  loved  you.  She 
is  young  and  imaginative,  easily  led  away.  Spare  her! 
spare  her!  She  is  so  young  and  inexperienced,  and  so 
lovely  and  might  be  so  happy." 

"Miss   Rosny,    for   Heaven's    sake,"    he    muttered, 


ON    ST.  ANN'S   PIER  413 

drawing  her  aside  to  a  sheltered  seat  at  the  edge  of  the 
pier,  "we  are  seen,  the  place  is  public." 

' '  What  of  the  place  ?  Don 't  destroy  those  two  lives, ' ' 
she  implored,  her  tears  falling  unchecked.  "Ronald 
Musgrave,  you  are  a  bad  man,  but  you  are  not  all  bad; 
you  would  never  have  gained  such  a  mastery  over  her 
without  some  good  and  noble  qualities.  Think  of  the 
misery  you  are  bringing  upon  her — and  him,  your 
friend,  your  early  friend,  the  man  who  loves  and  trusts 
and  admires  you  as  probably  no  other  does." 

"My  dear  child,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talk- 
ing about.  What  should  you  know  of  life?  Don't  cry 
like  that.  Go  home  and  teach  your  little  girls  and  leave 
things  you  don't  understand  alone." 

"I  understand  the  shame  and  lifelong  misery  of  a 
broken  marriage  well  enough.  Oh !  by  all  you  hold 
sacred — if  you  hold  anything  sacred — by  your  very  love 
for  her,  spare  her  and  spare  him." 

"Him?  He  neglects  her  and  makes  her  wretched. 
He  cares  for  another  woman." 

"No,  no;  he  loves  her;  his  every  thought  is  for  her. 
He  is  silent  and  undemonstrative  and  she  thinks  him 
cold.  He  is  full  of  business  and  she  thinks  he  cares 
for  nothing  else.  But  he  does.  '  When  I  come  home  and 
catch  that  light  shining  on  her  hair,  all  is  atoned  for,  it 
is  worth  the  weariest  day.'  He  said  that  to  me  three 
days  ago.  Yes ;  and  she  loves  him,  though  she  has  never 
understood  him.  What  can  you  give  her  to  atone  for  all 
she  would  lose,  to  atone  for  the  isolation,  the  social  ostra- 
cism, the  remorse,  the  memories  she  will  have  to  drug? 
How  can  she  ever  forget  her  child,  or  her  child 's  father  ? 
And  when  the  glamour  of  passion  has  faded  and  you  see 
each  other's  failings  and  are  jealous  of  each  other's  mem- 
ories, and  you  tire  of  her,  and  she  remembers  that  poor, 
drowned  woman  and  the  motherless  children,  and  Rich- 
ard's wronged  face  and  his  desolated  life  rise  before 
her,  and  her  beauty  withers  and  her  health  goes?  Ah! 
what  happiness  beyond  the  first  brief  delirium  can  there 
27 


414  RICHARD    ROSNY 

be  for  a  woman  except  in  the  safety  and  sanctity  of 
marriage  ?  Go,  and  let  her  forget  her  momentary  weak- 
ness— she  is  so  young,  so  easily  worked  upon,  so  defense- 
less, so  sweet  and  lovely  and  gifted.  Oh!  let  her  have 
her  day  in  peace;  don't  wreck  her  life  to  give  yourself 
a  few  months'  pleasure  and  unlawful  excitement.  You 
know  life ;  you  ought  to  know  how  soon  such  things  pall ; 
she  knows  nothing,  except  that  her  life  is  dull  and  unoc- 
cupied, and  that  a  man  nearly  twice  her  age  can  be  hor- 
ribly fascinating  just  while  he  is  at  her  feet." 

"She  knows  that,  does  she?"  he  interrupted  with  a 
grim  laugh. 

' '  Here  is  the  boat,  take  it, ' '  she  implored,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm  and  looking  up  through  streaming  eyes 
at  the  moved  fierceness  of  his  face,  just  as  the  steamer's 
wash  surged  against  the  piles  beneath  them  and  she 
brought  to  fifty  yards  away  with  a  bump  on  the  buffered 
pier  that  shook  them  and  made  Ronald  look  a  moment 
at  the  rolling  water  beneath.  There  the  reflection  of  a 
lamp  tossed  to  and  fro  in  the  steamer's  wash  suddenly 
took  to  his  excited  fancy  the  semblance  of  a  drowned 
face  dashed  in  piteous  helplessness  among  the  dark  weed- 
grown  piles,  and,  with  a  low  awe-struck  cry,  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  Neither  he  nor  Annis  saw  two 
men,  one  from  the  boat  just  arrived,  and  one  from  the 
pleasure  pier  alongside,  meet  and  shake  hands  and  pass 
them  by,  disappearing  in  the  pavilion,  whence  the  music 
of  a  military  band  came  fitfully  and  where  one  of  them, 
wearing  a  pince-nez,  had  little  heart  for  music  or  anything 
else  in  the  whole  wide  and  weary  world. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

A     BIDE     IN     THE     FOG 

ROSXY  kept  on  deck,  straining  his  eyes  to  pierce  the 
impenetrable  pall  that  clung  round  the  vessel  and  walled 
them  away  from  the  world,  now  thinking  he  saw  the 
lights  of  St.  Ann's,  now  finding  only  the  lights  of  some 
vessel  athwart  their  bows,  or  grinding  close  upon  their 
stern,  or  shaving  their  quarter.  The  steamer  crept  along 
like  a  wounded  thing,  haltingly  and  uncertainly,  the  pad- 
dles moved  with  difficult,  slow  jerks,  like  an  asthmatic 
heart ;  it  seemed  to  Rosny  that  they  made  two  backward 
revolutions  for  one  forward  one;  he  pitied  the  poor, 
baffled  boat  struggling  in  the  toils  of  coiling  serpentine 
fog. 

The  fog  became  a  personal  enemy,  a  part  of  the  gen- 
eral horror  that  seemed  to  have  closed  in  so  cruelly  upon 
his  lately  brightening  life;  weird  things  shaped  them- 
selves out  of  it ;  forgotten  scenes,  forgotten  faces,  issued 
from  its  dank,  gray  folds.  That  scene  by  the  cottage 
parlor  fire,  vivid  and  glowing  as  with  fires  of  hell,  came 
out  of  its  cold,  cruel  heart.  Could  Barton  have  invented 
or  fancied  it,  building  it  on  some  distorted  reality?  If 
it  were  real — if  it  were — the  dark,  deep  water  sliding 
away  so  slowly  from  the  black  vessel  was  the  only  refuge 
left  for  him.  But  of  course  it  was  not  true.  Then  the 
anonymous  letter  he  had  thrown  so  contemptuously  into 
the  fire  on  that  bright  morning ;  he  remembered  its  brief 
and  vitriolic  contents:  "Your  wife  is  in  danger.  Take 
care ! ' '  His  wife,  the  light  of  his  life !  That  anonymous 
writer  must  be  either  the  cause  or  effect  of  this  hide- 
ous gossip.  What  sane  man  is  seriously  pertui-bed  by 

415 


416  RICHARD    ROSXY 

anonymous  letters  and  gossip  quickly  put  an  end  to? 
Yet  through  the  soft  plash  and  roll  of  waves,  in  the 
sharp  scream  of  sirens,  in  the  hoarse  cries  of  "Larboard 
port.  Back  her!"  in  the  sudden  laughter  and  louder 
chat  of  passengers  through  opened  doors,  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  wild  laughter  and  many- voiced  clamor  of 
demons,  rising  in  harsh  dissonance  and  eddying  away  in 
sobbing  shrieks  and  moans  upon  the  vast  hidden  spaces 
of  the  sea. 

It  had  been  a  mistake  to  live  at  Wimbury;  he  was 
sure  of  that  at  last,  a  mistake  for  her,  a  perpetual  joy  and 
refreshment  for  himself.  The  dear  old  cottage  must  be 
given  up ;  Evelyn  should  stay  no  longer  within  sound 
of  slanderous  tongues ;  she  should  choose  their  home  this 
time. 

Ronald's  face  was  painted  en  the  fog;  Ronald  was 
the  soul  of  honor.  He  had  sown  his  wild  oats  long  ago ; 
but  he  was  the  soul  of  honor.  Still  it  might  have  been 
unwise  to  throw  him  so  much  with  Evelyn,  within  reach 
of  petty  gossip.  Ronald's  laugh,  his  hearty  hand-clasp, 
their  early  comradeship,  their  scraps  and  jests,  and  the 
friendship  that  survived  all  the  parting  years — all  came 
back,  painted  upon  the  fog  and  winding  in  and  out  of  its 
folds.  Ronald,  his  senior  in  the  service,  had  taken  him 
in  hand  and  stood  up  for  him  in  those  first  badgered 
midshipman  days,  when  a  boy  has  hard  work  to  hold  his 
own  and  find  his  right  level  amid  the  bewilderment  of 
unknown  customs,  accentuated  by  kicks  and  cuffs  and 
pitiless  practical  jokes.  He  had  also  led  him  into  much 
mischief;  but  Ronald  was  the  soul  of  honor.  Ah!  how 
good  the  old  sea-going  days  had  been! 

The  fog  was  lifting  at  last,  or  rather  the  boat  was 
creeping  out  of  its  thinned  edges;  those  were  the  lights 
of  St.  Ann's,  a  vague,  bright  blur  on  the  water,  gradu- 
ally resolving  itself  into  lamp-garlanded  pier  and  espla- 
nade, and  the  town  itself  stepping  down  from  low  hills 
to  the  sea,  over  which  trembled  the  dulled  sound  of 
clocks  chiming  six  on  the  misty  air. 


A   RIDE    IN   THE   FOG  417 

Every  available  train  on  the  two  or  three  possible 
routes  to  Wimbury  was  lost.  He  got  out  at  the  pier- 
head and  walked  through  the  bright  busy  streets  to  the 
St.  Ann's  branch  of  Belton's,  where,  though  the  bank 
was  long  shut,  all  hands  were  hard  at  work  making  up 
the  half-yearly  balance,  and  where  some  business  mat- 
ters were  awaiting  his  hand.  Strictly  speaking,  he 
should  have  spent  another  hour  there;  but,  though  he 
told  himself  there  was  no  occasion  for  hurry,  he  left  all 
the  less  pressing  matters  and  stopped  but  a  bare  ten  min- 
utes, and  then,  considering  the  circuitous  railway  routes 
and  the  checks  and  delays  of  the  most  direct  one,  de- 
cided that  a  bicycle  would  most  speedily  take  him  over 
the  fifteen  miles  between  St.  Ann's  and  Wimbury.  He 
had  left  a  bicycle  on  the  premises  a  few  days  before  and 
was  soon  upon  it,  toiling  up  the  steep  street,  among 
smart  carriages  taking  people  out  to  dine  or  bringing 
them  home  to  dress,  past  the  Town  Hall  and  the  lighted 
Assembly  Rooms,  outside  which  a  concert  \vas  advertised 
in  gigantic  posters,  and  upon  a  melancholy  procession  of 
sandwich-men,  past  suburban  villas  buried  in  trees,  and 
so  out  into  the  open  country  roads,  dark  and  only  lighted 
by  blurred  glow  of  cottage,  farm,  and  village,  at  wider 
and  wider  intervals. 

The  night  was  breathless,  the  few  faint  stars  in  the 
zenith  gradually  vanished,  the  dim  and  shadowy  fields, 
woods,  and  hills  were  merged  in  one  blank  darkness  of 
all-pervading  fog,  silently  and  stealthily  rolling  in  from 
the  channel,  cold  and  ghostlike.  The  bare  trees  dripping 
with  it,  the  hedges  soaked  in  it ;  all  was  silent  and  soli- 
tary, damp,  and  lifeless.  The  cycle  lamp  threw  a  red 
and  tremulous  glimmer  upon  a  few  yards  of  road  ahead, 
and  upon  banks  and  hedges  by  the  side;  nothing  else 
was  visible ;  all  sense  of  distance  and  proportion  seemed 
to  have  vanished  from  an  oppressed  and  mist-covered 
world.  Here  a  turn  in  the  road  would  throw  a  bank,  a 
tree,  an  outbuilding  abutting  on  the  highroad,  suddenly 
in  the  face,  so  that  there  was  scarcely  time  to  turn 


418  RICHARD   ROSNY 

from  it;  there  an  unexpected  descent  would  bring  the 
bicycle  with  headlong  swiftness  against  the  hardly 
shaved  stone-wall  of  a  bridge,  over  which  the  road  ran ; 
again  some  shapeless  mass,  conjectured  to  be  a  building 
or  clump  of  trees,  would  recede  as  it  was  approached, 
withdrawing  itself  into  endless  increasing  distance. 
Nothing  was  recognizable;  the  small  visible  portions  of 
hedge,  wall,  or  paling  had  no  distinctive  features ;  even  the 
rare  farmstead  and  cottage,  the  roadside  pond,  the  stream 
over  which  the  highroad  bridged,  were  hard  to  distin- 
guish without  their  accustomed  surroundings.  A  sense 
of  baffling  and  bewilderment  was  in  the  ghostly  mist- 
hidden  night ;  all  seemed  unreal  and  fantastic ;  the  thick 
air  held  hidden  secrets,  stifled  sounds,  dread  portents. 
Now  the  cough  of  a  cow  behind  a  hedge  seemed  to  come 
hollow  and  ghostly  from  the  earth  beneath,  a  horse  snort- 
ing as  he  browsed  unseen,  the  tread  of  cattle  and  sheep 
in  the  fields,  thrilled  the  nerves  unpleasantly.  Going 
carefully  within  the  limited  area  of  his  lamplight,  he 
was  beginning  to  wonder  where  he  was,  when  a  succes- 
sion of  faintly  glowing  windows  suggested  a  village ;  this 
was  confirmed  by  the  brighter  and  larger  glow  from 
an  inn,  its  sign  visible  in  the  light  of  an  outer  lamp,  and 
doubly  confirmed  by  cheerful  sounds  issuing  from  the 
door. 

Rosny,  whose  heart  was  in  idealized  public-houses, 
forgot  his  trouble  for  a  moment  to  think  about  this  par- 
ticular unreformed  bar,  only  to  be  quickly  brought 
back  by  way  of  his  own  King's  Arms  to  his  pain.  Just 
now  they  would  be  dropping  in,  Seth  Barton  and  the 
others,  to  the  club,  tasting  their  temperate  cups,  smo- 
king their  cheery  pipes,  and  discussing  the  village  gossip 
— in  which  the  name  of  Rosny — ah !  that  was  nothing — 
but  the  name  of  Rosny 's  wife — that  was  everything — 
had  become  a  byword.  The  thought  was  madness  and 
drove  him,  furiously  pedaling,  out  into  the  weird 
silence  of  the  fog-swathed  night,  where  he  lost  his  way 
on  a  heathy  eminence  that  was  crossed  and  recrossed 


A   RIDE    IN    THE   FOG  419 

by  low  brambly  hedges,  and  ran  into  a  sandy  bank. 
What  mad  impatience  not  to  wait  and  take  the 
train ! 

Far  away  through  the  dense  fog-wall  he  heard  the 
dull  rumble  of  a  train  rising  to  a  faint  roar  and  grum- 
bling away  into  silence  again.  Not  that  haste  was  of 
the  smallest  consequence,  except  for  the  longing  to  find 
himself  safe  and  calm  within  the  walls  of  the  dear  cot- 
tage, and  at  one  stroke  lay  the  whole  army  of  specters 
raised  by  Gatrell  with  the  first  sight  of  Evelyn's  face. 
One  glance — just  one  glance  at  the  graceful  figure  sitting 
in  the  light  of  his  hearth,  as  he  so  often  found  her,  and 
turning  with  a  smile  when  he  came  in — would  be  enough 
to  deliver  him  from  this  spiritual  tempest  and  land  him 
in  a  sweet  haven  of  calm  and  perfect  trust.  The  arm 
injured  at  the  wreck  was  not  yet  quite  recovered,  and 
when  he  came  off  on  the  sandy  bank,  a  fresh  wrench 
renewed  the  sprain,  making  it  useless  and  very  painful; 
the  cycle  was  unhurt;  but  he  did  not  know  on  which 
part  of  that  heathy  plateau  crossed  by  many  roads  he 
was.  He  picked  himself  and  his  cycle  painfully  up,  and 
looked  round  in  doubt  and  perplexity.  One  solid  wall  of 
damp  darkness  closed  round  and  hemmed  him  in  on 
every  side;  nowhere  was  the  faintest  glimmer  or  break 
discoverable  to  his  straining  eyes;  he  was  like  some 
trapped  creature  caught  and  shut  away  in  the  dark.  He 
had  known  the  silence  of  shoreless  seas,  in  storm  and 
calm,  in  cloud  and  starlight  and  in  such  fog  as  this;  he 
had  been  alone  in  wild  places  without  inhabitant,  but 
never  had  such  a  realization  of  solitude  come  upon  him 
as  now,  when  he  stood  with  shaken  nerves  and  troubled 
heart  ringed  round  and  stifled  by  the  clinging  black- 
ness, and  felt  with  his  one  sound  arm  for  the  lamp  ex- 
tinguished in  the  shock  of  the  fall.  All  his  sins  of  all 
his  life  rushed  with  scorpion  stings  upon  him,  yet  there 
was  not  one  unrepented — he  thought.  A  great  horror 
fell  upon  him ;  his  soul  passed  through  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death.  It  was  just  and  right  so  to  pass — he 


420  RICHARD   ROSXY 

had  sinned  so  deeply.  The  story  of  the  night  of  Ade- 
line's birthday  traced  itself  upon  the  darkness  in  letters 
of  fire ;  prayer  rose  to  his  lips ;  little  by  little  peace  came 
through  the  unbreaking  darkness  and  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  was  robbed  of  terror. 

A  strucken  match  revealed  and  relighted  the  lamp, 
the  cycle  was  found  serviceable,  a  cautious  walk  of  some 
few  yards  discovered  a  white  shaft  in  the  brambly  hedge 
upon  the  sand-bank,  which  proved  to  be  a  finger-post, 
with  five  branches,  all  illegible  until  he  had  stepped  on 
the  bank  and  swarmed  high  enough  up  the  post  to  read 
them  by  a  match,  just  as  the  fog-smothered  call  of  a 
bugle  proclaimed  the  nearness  of  a  garrison  and  told 
him  he  was  on  the  right  side  of  the  heath. 

It  was  quick  work  then,  except  for  the  danger  of 
running  into  vehicles  and  foot-passengers,  to  plunge  into 
the  valley  in  which  lay  the  market  town,  thinning  the 
fog  with  its  lights  and  warmth  far  out  on  either  suburb. 
Through  these  he  passed  at  high  speed  to  be  again  swal- 
lowed in  immense,  all-covering  night. 

How  sweet  the  home-picture  then  looked  to  longing 
fancy;  how  often  it  had  cheered  him  on  home- journeys 
through  dark  winter  nights!  In  fine  weather  he  some- 
times cycled  home,  though  the  customary  route  was  by 
rail,  ending  in  the  short  walk  to  the  cottage  the  lights  of 
which  grew  dearer  with  every  step. 

Though  the  way  beyond  the  town  was  wilder  and 
lonelier  and  more  complicated,  it  was  traveled  without 
further  catastrophe  till  the  bleak  upland  of  Wimbury 
Waste  was  reached.  There  again  he  lost  all  sense  of 
locality,  and  had  to  get  off  and  walk  with  careful  exam- 
ination of  the  strip  of  waste  bordering  the  road  to  make 
sure  he  was  not  descending  the  wrong  slope  of  the  hill. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  it  was  Wimbury  Waste ;  he  had 
passed  the  Barley  Mow,  else  there  would  have  been  a 
doubt.  The  cold  wetness  had  crept  into  him,  penetrating 
to  the  very  marrow,  soaking  hair  and  beard  and  trick- 
ling under  collar  and  cuffs:  the  long  struggle  with  fog 


A   RIDE   IN   THE   FOG  421 

and  dark  Avas  becoming  exhausting.  He  stood  still  and 
bewildered  again. 

Then  he  remembered  that  night-ride  on  the  high,  old- 
fashioned  bicycle,  when  Kitty  Musgrave  watched  and 
waited  in  vain  for  the  gleam  of  his  lamp.  Kitty  had 
been  dear,  but  less  dear  than  the  mother  of  his  son,  the 
tiny  baby  in  the  churchyard  of  whom  he  so  often  thought, 
and  whom  he  hoped  one  brighter  day  to  see  among  the 
"solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies"  moving  in  the  celes- 
tial fields  of  joy. 

He  could  not  but  think  of  that  other  night-ride  and 
the  sorrow  it  brought,  while  he  stood  by  the  solid  and 
impenetrable  fog-wall  eddying  perpetually  away  in  rings 
and  spirals,  yet  always  returning  upon  itself  with  dizzy- 
ing persistence;  he  was  dead  beat,  and  was  fain  to  sit 
down  on  the  banked  border  of  the  road  and  take  breath 
and  close  his  aching  eyes.  He  was  on  Wimbury  Waste,  in 
one  of  its  intersecting  roads,  and  Wimbury  Waste  was 
wide  and  desolate,  and  he  might  wander  till  morning 
without  finding  the  right  road — that  was  all  he  knew. 
He  might,  of  course,  keep  straight  on  till  he  arrived 
somewhere,  but  there  were  pits  and  wayside  ponds  on  the 
waste,  and,  lower  down,  marshes  cut  across  by  deep 
trenches,  and,  higher  up,  the  lonely  downs  scored  by 
chalk  quarries,  and  scarcely  a  house  anywhere  except  on 
the  Wimbury  road,  which,  by  the  feel  of  the  air,  he 
thought  to  be  behind  him. 

He  was  growing  numb  and  confused,  worried  to 
think  of  Evelyn  waiting  and  watching  for  him — poor 
child,  she  was  always  waiting  and  watching;  he  must 
end  it.  They  would  live  near  Shackleton  or  else  on  the 
Riviera — no ;  it  was  Gerald  who  was  to  go  to  the  Riviera 
with  Gwenny.  He  was  half  asleep;  it  was  not  wise  to 
sleep  in  the  open  air  of  a  winter  night,  as  poor  Belton 
had  done  all  that  long,  cold  night.  Suddenly  he  saw  it 
all,  clear  and  plain  before  him.  He  himself  was  to  lie 
out  in  the  cold  all  night  as  Belton  had  done  on  this 
very  night  twelve  years  ago.  It  was  just;  it  was  well. 


422  RICHARD    ROSNY 

After  a  time  weird  shapes  wound  in  and  out  of  the 
fog,  changing  and  growing  as  they  came  and  went; 
things  were  fading;  a  soft  music  swelled  up  and  died. 
It  came  again  and  again  like  a  familiar,  homelike  song. 
It  was  the  bells,  the  joy-bells  of  Wimbury  tower,  muffled 
and  hollow,  like  the  music  of  dreams,  but  very  pleasant 
and  comforting.  Yes;  the  bells,  the  wedding-bells,  to 
welcome  them  home  again. 

But  it  was  no  dream :  it  was  real ;  he  drew  his  stiffen- 
ing limbs  slowly  up,  shook  off  the  dizzy  drowsiness  and 
listened  eagerly  to  the  cheering  voices.  Down  they  swept 
in  softly  dropping  notes  through  the  muffling  mist,  the 
eight  gay,  sweet  notes,  an  angel  voice  in  each,  down  and 
up  and  down  again,  crossing  and  recrossing  in  the 
changes,  and  sounding  dim  and  distant  through  the  fog ; 
the  sweet  familiar  Wimbury  bells.  ' '  Come  home, ' '  they 
sang,  "come  home  to  peace  and  love  and  trust — home, 
home,  home." 

He  knew  now  that  he  was  on  the  Wimbury  road  and 
had  nearly  fallen  asleep  there  forever;  he  had  only  to 
spin  straight  on  down  hill  without  a  turn  to  reach  Wim- 
bury and  see  his  own  warm  cottage  lights  and  Evelyn 
by  the  parlor  fire. 

Nearer  and  nearer  sounded  the  bells ;  here  and  there 
was  a  villager  walking  cautiously,  and  here  a  dim  light, 
and  now  he  skirted  the  churchyard  wall,  where  from 
some  effect  of  fog  the  bells  sounded  fainter,  and  now 
he  turned  into  the  lane  by  the  cottage  and  caught  the 
glow  of  the  kitchen  window.  And  here  was  the  front 
gate  and  he  was  off,  suddenly  conscious  of  the  pain  in 
the  wrenched  arm,  and  of  a  mistake  in  the  bell-ringing 
that  jingled  all  the  music ;  and  now,  with  a  wildly  beat- 
ing heart — yet  why  should  it  lose  its  normal  rhythm? — 
he  opened  the  gate  with  the  sound  hand,  propped  it 
back  with  his  body,  dragged  the  cycle  in,  and  looked  for 
the  lighted  windows. 

But  all  was  blank  and  dark. 

He  walked  with  an  unhurried  step  to  the  door,  opened 


A   RIDE    IN    THE   FOG  423 

it  and  went  into  the  dim-lighted  hall,  greeted  by  a  jar- 
ring shriek  of  laughter  from  the  kitchen.  Softly  open- 
ing the  parlor  door,  he  stepped  into  darkness  visible  in 
the  embers  of  a  fire.  He  spoke,  his  voice  sounding 
strange  and  weak.  ' '  Evelyn, ' '  he  said.  He  found  wood 
and,  blowing  up  the  embers,  looked  round  the  empty 
room.  He  saw  the  flowers  that  Evelyn  had  bent  over 
the  night  before,  while  Musgrave's  presence  at  the  gate 
\vas  being  discussed ;  they  were  still  unf  aded ;  some  sheets 
of  music  lay  on  the  piano;  the  firelight  glittered  upon 
the  two  swords  beneath  the  portraits;  the  sword-glitter 
was  repeated  in  his  eyes ;  they  were  cold  and  hard.  ' '  He 
zeen  that  a  shouldn't  a  zeen,  zeen  they  two  cuddled  up 
in  one  another's  earms,"  he  seemed  to  hear  Gatrell  say. 

He  stumbled  slowly  through  the  little  hall  to  the 
dining-room,  and  another  shriek  of  laughter  rang  from 
the  kitchen.  The  room  was  empty  and  dark,  the  hearth 
cold;  he  went  back,  lighted  a  taper  and  rang  the  bell, 
which  was  answered,  first  by  the  tumultuous  inrush  of 
Hollo,  who  fawned  and  leaped  upon  him  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  sedate  and  dignified  Fluff,  with  shining 
eyes,  loud  purrs  and  opening  and  shutting  paws,  and 
then  by  the  housemaid,  who  started  back  wide-eyed  with 
a  suppressed  cry  at  the  sight  of  him.  He  was  covered 
with  mud  and  soaked  with  wet,  his  hair  and  beard  drip- 
ping in  fine  points  with  fog;  the  wild  and  haggard  fig- 
ure, with  burning  eyes  and  drawn  face  still  marked  by 
the  Sunday  storm,  was  indeed  hardly  recognizable. 

"Is  Mrs.  Rosny  not  at  home?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir.  She  wasn't  expecting  you.  Dear  heart 
alive,  and  no  dinner  nor  nothing  and  you  that  wet  and 
tired  and  muddy." 

He  wondered  if  it  were  the  rule  that  she  should  be 
out  when  he  was  not  expected. 

' '  Is  Mrs.  Rosny  at  the  vicarage  1 "  he  presently  asked. 

Rhoda's  eyes  became  rounder  and  rounder  and  she 
fidgeted  nervously  with  her  apron — hastily  assumed  at 
the  bell-rinsring  and  not  finished  by  the  customary  cap. 


424  RICHARD   ROSNY 

' '  Well,  sir,  since  you  ask  me,  Mrs.  Rosny  didn  't  leave 
word  where  she  was  dining,"  she  said  slowly.  "All 
she  said  was  she  wouldn't  be  home  to  dinner,  nor  yet 
— nor  yet  to  sleep,  sir,"  she  added  in  a  frightened 
way. 

"She  didn't  mention  that  she  was  going  to  Ingre- 
stone?  Mrs.  Belton  or  my  sisters  have  not  called 
to-day  ?  She  talked  of  dining  and  sleeping  at  the  Pines. 
They  were  to  drive  over  and  fetch  her, ' '  he  continued  in 
a  way  that  went  to  Rhoda's  heart — "he  tried  that  hard 
to  put  a  good  face  on  it,"  she  said  afterward. 

"No,  sir.  Mistress  didn't  mention  going  to  Ingre- 
stone.  And  nobody  called  here — except " 

"Ah!  except?"  he  put  in  eagerly. 

"Except  Miss  Rosny — just  before  lunch." 

"Ah!  Miss  Rosny.  Did  she  take  Mrs.  Rosny  home 
with  her?" 

"Mistress  was  out  when  Miss  Rosny  called.  And 
when  she  came  in  to  lunch  she  didn't  mention  Miss 
Rosny.  And  I'm  sorry  to  say  I  forgot  to  tell  her  Miss 
Rosny  called,  sir." 

"Mrs.  Rosny  probably  thought  she  had  told  you 
where  she  was  dining  and  sleeping, ' '  he  replied  wearily, 
"though  it  was  of  course  no  consequence.  Ah — when 
did  your  mistress  set  out?  Did  she  drive?  Did  she 
carry  a  bag  or  something?" 

"She  walked,  sir.  I  don't  know  as  she  took  anything. 
When  I  come  in  to  clear  the  table  she  was  gone.  Nobody 
seen  her  go." 

"Did  she  leave  any  orders  for  to-morrow?  No? 
You  had  better  expect  her  to  luncheon  then.  Strange 
that  Mrs.  Rosny  should  happen  to  dine  out  to-night 
when  I  unexpectedly  had  a  chance  of  coming  home.  Get 
me  hot  water  and  clean  clothes,  Rhoda,  will  you,  and  tell 
the  cook  to  find  me  something  to  eat." 

"Rhoda  knows,"  he  sighed,  when  the  girl  left  the 
room  and  he  fell  heavily  back  in  his  chair.  "Every- 
body knows;  everybody  but  one  blind,  befooled  idiot." 


A   RIDE    IN    THE    FOG  425 

He  felt  his  senses  going  in  the  shock;  the  singular 
experience  of  not  being  able  or  willing  to  care  about  it, 
that  comes  with  the  first  shattering  onset  of  calamity, 
took  possession  of  him;  he  became  immersed  in  imme- 
diate physical  necessities,  the  only  important  thing 
seemed  to  be  warmed,  dried,  and  fed,  and  relieved  from 
the  pain  of  his  arm. 

After  a  little  he  staggered  into  the  dining-parlor, 
where  a  fire  had  been  hastily  lighted,  and  got  some 
whisky  from  the  cellaret,  observing  that  the  key  Eyelyn 
always  kept  was  left  in  the  door.  She  was  a  good  house- 
keeper, he  reflected,  in  a  slow,  stupid  way.  Then  he 
wished  she  were  there  that  he  might  kill  her.  To  strike 
her  dead  there  before  him  on  the  hearth  she  had  dese- 
crated seemed  the  one  thing  worth  doing. 

Setting  his  glass  down  with  this  thought,  he  saw  an 
unrecognizable  face  in  the  mirror  before  him,  with  blood- 
shot, burning  eyes,  matted  hair  and  beard,  and  livid, 
sullen  countenance,  splashed  with  mud.  "Only  the 
husband,"  he  thought  with  a  savage  laugh. 

A  hot  bath  and  clean  clothes,  quickly  laid  out  by 
the  pitying  handmaid,  made  him  feel  more  human;  he 
was  careful  in  the  difficult  matter  of  fitting  on  an  eve- 
ning tie  with  one  hand,  and  brushed  a  speck  of  dust  from 
the  dinner-jacket  Rhoda  had  put  ready.  He  was  glad 
that  his  son  was  dead. 

"He  wouldn't  sit  with  his  black  coffee  and  his  pipe 
lighted  up  as  comfortable  as  comfortable,  if  there  was 
anything  wrong,"  the  maid  said  in  the  kitchen  after- 
ward. 

Physically  refreshed,  he  began  to  reason  with  his 
misery.  Only  that  morning  he  had  left  his  home  in 
utter  trust  and  confidence  in  his  wife.  She  had  not 
kissed  him,  but  that  was  nothing.  Now  he  came  to  think 
of  it,  that  custom  had  gradually  become  obsolete;  why 
not?  They  had  been  married  over  two  years. 

What  had  happened  since?  An  anonymous  letter 
with  a  London  post-mark  in  a  disguised  writing;  Gat- 


426  RICHARD   ROSNY 

rell's  visit  to  report  village  gossip — villagers  have 
another  etiquette  and  other  conventions  than  ours — they 
allow  practically  no  social  intercourse  between  the  sexes ; 
it  had  startled  them  to  find  a  man  visiting  the  cottage 
in  his  absence.  But  the  firelit  embrace?  No,  no;  that 
was  fancy  fired  by  gossip.  Seth  had  passed  quickly  and 
caught  sight  of  the  two  figures  in  the  fitful  light.  Eve- 
lyn may  have  become  aware  of  the  gossip ;  she  may  have 
thought  Ronald  might  call  in  his  absence  and  have  been 
unwilling  to  be  found  alone.  She  might  be  at  the  vicar- 
age. Why  not  call  and  see?  But  if  she  were  not  there, 
and  they  saw  that  he  knew  nothing  of  her  movements? 
He  argued  long  for  the  defense,  but  the  venom  of  sus- 
picion, once  in  the  blood,  is  not  easily  purged.  They 
had  not  been  quite  happy  together. 

Might  she  have  left  a  note?  The  dining-parlor  was 
thoroughly  examined  and  showed  nothing  unusual  but 
the  keys  left  out.  After  all,  he  had  unexpectedly  come 
home  only  the  night  before ;  she  might  have  left  them  out 
in  view  of  the  contingency  of  his  coming  again.  The 
drawing-room  showed  her  work  with  the  needle  in  it, 
and  every  evidence  of  occupations  to  be  resumed  to-mor- 
row, nothing  missing  from  the  book-shelves,  no  photo- 
graphs gone.  Note-paper  lay  in  a  blotting  book,  notes, 
memoranda,  bills,  household  accounts  were  there,  all  in 
order;  but  no  note  for  him;  his  strong  fingers  trembled 
in  the  vain  search. 

Up-stairs  her  things  were  about  ready  for  use,  gowns 
hanging  in  the  wardrobe.  The  gowns  were  all  old 
friends ;  but  he  could  not  tell  which  of  them  was  missing. 
The  jewel-case  was  in  its  place  and  locked.  One  white 
rose  stood  in  a  glass  on  the  dressing-table.  Such  roses 
were  not  grown  at  the  cottage  at  this  winter  season,  only 
at  the  Retreat.  The  baby's  photograph  was  on  the  wall, 
also  that  charming  group  of  herself  with  the  child  smi- 
ling over  her  shoulder.  The  sight  accentuated  the  deso- 
lation. It  was  many  months  since  Evelyn's  disordered 
nerves  had  condemned  her  to  lonely  pillows.  He  under- 


A   RIDE   IN   THE   FOG  427 

stood  these  nerves  at  last;  and  flinging  the  rose  on  the 
floor,  stamped  it  out  of  shape. 

Then  down-stairs  again  to  sit  and  stare  into  the  fire 
on  the  lonely  hearth  and  listen,  with  strained  ears  and 
desperate  hope,  for  the  step  that  he  knew  would  never 
come  again. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

A   SLOW   HOESE 

RICHARD  was  not  the  only  man  in  Wimbury  with  a 
heartache  on  that  foggy  December  night  which  lay  like 
a  shroud  upon  the  world.  Heaven  seems  a  very  long 
way  off  on  such  nights  as  these,  and  they  are  happy  who 
have  a  home  so  bright  and  cheery  as  Wimbury  vicarage 
was,  when  the  master  elect  of  Goldenose  stepped  into  it 
on  his  return  from  meeting  a  friend  at  St.  Ann's,  and 
performed  one  of  the  brief  and  ineffectual  toilets  which 
were  used  to  scandalize  his  sister-in-law. 

"I  sometimes  wish,  Basil,"  she  said  somewhat  tartly 
after  a  sidelong  glance  at  him,  "that  you  would  marry, 
if  only  to  cure  you  of  wearing  your  necktie  under  one 
ear;  though  if  you  marry  some  one  who  is  as  bad,  I 
don't  see  the  good." 

"Nor  I  the  construction  or  sense  of  your  sentence, 
Kit,"  her  husband  retorted.  "What's  up,  Basil?  You 
seem  a  cup  too  low  to-night." 

"The  matter?  Why  the  fog  is  the  matter.  It's  like 
being  lost  in  a  bad  dream.  Who  can  be  cheerful  in  a 
fog  like  this?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Kit  and  I  manage  to  keep  up 
our  spirits,  even  in  fogs.  But  our  digestions  are  serv- 
iceable and  our  consciences  clear.  I  thought  Nancy  was 
dining  here  to-night,  Kit?" 

"So  did  I.  Odd,  very  odd.  She  was  to  sleep  here 
and  to  telegraph  home  not  to  expect  her.  That  was  be- 
fore luncheon,  when  she  went  to  the  cottage." 

"When  I  met  Miss  Rcsny  this  morning,"  the  pro- 
428 


A   SLOW    HORSE  429 

fessor  said  very  slowly  and  earnestly  looking  into  his 
plate,  "I  was  given  to  understand  that  she  was  on  her 
way  to  the  station,  en  route  for  Sandycombe  by  the 
10.30." 

"Really?  This  is  impressive.  I  say,  Basil,  what 
have  you  been  saying — eh,  Kitty,  what?" 

"It  was  I  who  said  it,  Herbert,  not  Basil.  I  per- 
suaded her  to  stop  the  night  here  and  telegraphed  to 
her  people,  and  she  hasn't." 

"You  telegraphed?  Well,  why  should  she,  if  you 
did?  Oh,  stopped  the  night.  But  the  night  is  not  yet 
in  the  past  tense.  And  what  did  you  say  became  of 
the  errant  damsel  ?  You  can 't  mean  that  you  locked  her 
up  in  the  coal-cellar  while  you  wired  to  her  people  not 
to  expect  her — even  your  hospitality  would  hardly  go 
such  lengths  as  that — and  then  came  back  and  found 
her  escaped  by  an  unexpected  trap-door  or  practicable 
paving-stone  ? ' ' 

"Not  quite,"  Kathleen  replied  impressively.  "She 
went  to  the  cottage." 

' '  And  was  locked  up  in  their  coal-cellar  ?  How  inter- 
esting !  Mysterious  disappearance  of  a  substantial  young 
lady;  startling  disclosures;  supposed  elopement " 

"I  scarcely  see  the  point  of  the  joke,"  Basil  inter- 
rupted stiffly.  "Miss  Rosny's  present  whereabouts  ap- 
pears to  me  to  be  a  matter  of  some  moment — at  least  to 
her  friends." 

"My  dear  old  chap,  do  we  live  in  a  melodrama?  Is 
it  likely  that  a  robust  and  substantial  young  woman,  in 
possession  of  her  five  wits  and  a  pretty  strong  will  into 
the  bargain,  would  be  spirited  off  nolens  volens  in  broad 
daylight  from  this  our  innocent  Arcadian  hamlet,  where 
we  haven't  the  ghost  of  a  villain  to  bless  ourselves  with 
— unless,  indeed,  poor  Musgrave?" 

"But  he's  gone  too,"  cried  Kathleen  in  sudden  dis- 
may. "Olivia  came  in  to  tea  this  afternoon  and  said 
how  tiresome  it  was,  with  the  New  Year's  Eve  tableaux 
vivants  depending  on  him,  and  Randal  setting  up  his 
28 


430  RICHARD    ROSNY 

gout,  as  he  always  does  whenever  he  can  be  of  the  slight- 
est use." 

"Aye,  that's  the  way  of  these  husbands,  Kit,  wlien 
they  can  be  of  use.  Well,  that  departure  is  a  good  thing, 
considering  all  things.  I  wonder  if  Olivia  gave  him 
notice  to  quit.  Nancy  is  at  the  cottage,  no  doubt." 

"But  I  sent  there  this  afternoon.  Evelyn  had  gone 
out,  but  not  with  Nancy." 

"Console  yourself,  Kitten.  Nancy  has  not  eloped 
with  Mm — though  to  confess  the  solid  truth  I  always 
thought  she  had  a  sort  of  sneaking  kindness  for  him. ' ' 

"Are  you  quite  sure,"  the  professor  asked  in  sad 
earnest, ' '  that  the  attentions,  supposed  to  be  a  blind,  were 
after  all  not  genuine?" 

"Not  in  the  least  sure.  Nancy  is  a  delightful  girl, 
fresh,  genuine,  wholesome,  straightforward,  and  orig- 
inal— qualities  that  might  attract  that  kind  of  man  by 
their  very  novelty.  Her  want  of  beauty " 

"There  is  no  want  of  beauty  in  Miss  Rosny,  Her- 
bert," he  corrected.  "But  her  beauty  is  inferior  to  her 
intellect,  which  is  of  a  kind  rarely  met  with  in  women, 
and  not  often  in  men.  A  man  of  powerful  intellect  and 
scholarly  acquirements  is  frequently  attracted  by  super- 
ficial sparkle  and  mere  good  looks,  why  not  a  woman? 
They  instinctively  admire  the  qualities  they  do  not  pos- 
sess— and  the  brute  is  such  a  plausible  brute,"  he  added 
with  savage  emphasis. 

"Oh,"  cried  Kathleen,  laughing,  "if  Nancy  could 
but  hear  herself  accused  of  a  weakness  for  Ronald  Mus- 
grave,  what  would  become  of  us?  We  should  have  to 
make  our  wills,  every  one  of  us.  Why,  she  hates  the  very 
sight  of  him;  she  has  no  words  bad  enough  to  describe 
him." 

"That,"  observed  the  professor  with  deepening 
gloom,  "has  been  a  feminine  characteristic  from  imme- 
morial ages.  All  the  great  poets  have  recorded  it." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  Basil.  All  the  nastiest  things 
that  can  be  said  of  women  have  been  said  from  imme- 


A   SLOW    HORSE  431 

morial  ages  by  all  the  greatest  poets,  except  Sappho, 
because  they  were  all  men  and  knew  no  better.  But  I 
can  not  recommend  anybody  who  values  Nancy's  friend- 
ship to  think  her  capable  of  admiring  my  poor,  black- 
sheep  cousin." 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  professor;  "but  it  is,  unhappily, 
the  finest  natures  and  the  noblest  and  purest  characters 
that  fall  victims  to  these  fatal  infatuations;  it  is  they 
alone  who  conceive  grand  and  tragic  passions  for  evil 
and  outwardly  attractive  seducers,  who  play  upon  their 
most  generous  emotions  to  their  undoing.  That  is  the 
tragedy  of  life,  the  lacliymce  rerum, ' '  he  added,  with  such 
genuine  anguish  that  his  brother  and  sister-in-law  were 
startled  into  sympathy  with  him. 

"Poor  old  boy,"  the  former  thought,  "it's  either 
indigestion,  corns,  or  being  chucked  for  the  mastership. 
— Come  and  have  a  cigar,  Baz, "  he  said  affectionately. 

"Come  and  see  the  darling  chicks  asleep,  Uncle 
Bazzy,  dear,"  was  the  still  more  sumptuous  offer  of  the 
latter,  who  was  sure  it  was  corns,  complicated  by  under- 
graduates and  college  rules. 

But  the  professor  knew  only  too  well  that  it  was 
Nancy. 

The  unfortunate  cause  of  all  the  painful  and  dis- 
quieting emotions  packed  into  that  brief  winter's  day, 
and  herself  the  victim  of  more  than  she  could  endure, 
was  entirely  free  from  any  suspicion  of  being  followed, 
especially  of  being  followed  by  Nancy,  who  had  given 
her  a  cheery  and  affectionate  good-by  that  morning  and 
then  disappeared  bag  and  baggage,  as  had  been  decided 
some  days  earlier. 

She  was  quite  sure  that  Nancy  suspected  nothing  that 
morning,  when  she  watched  the  latter  step  briskly  down 
the  path  to  the  gate,  where  she  turned  and  waved  a  last 
bood-by.  But  it  had  been  a  terrible  strain  to  keep  her 
in  the  dark,  and  she  was  unspeakably  glad  of  the  rest 
and  relief  her  departure  afforded  her,  shuddering  at 
the  recollection  of  the  narrow  shaves  by  which  a  discov- 


432  RICHARD   ROSNY 

ery  of  this  impassioned  drama  had  been  missed.  Espe- 
cially did  she  shudder  at  last  night's  encounter  at  the 
gate  and  Richard's  frank  and  unsuspicious  remarks 
when  Nancy  had,  equally  unsuspiciously  and  unexpect- 
edly, come  to  her  rescue  with  her  flat  denial  of  Mus- 
grave's  visit,  and  had  taken  Richard's  attention  from 
her  own  too  evident  agitation.  How  bitterly  she  felt 
the  degradation  of  all  this  double-dealing!  Always 
secretive  and  reticent,  as  the  sensitive  and  deeply  feel- 
ing must  ever  be,  except  when  in  the  warm  and  encour- 
aging atmosphere  of  sympathetic  surroundings,  she  had 
never  been  underhand,  never  been  given  to  act  a  part. 
Her  mother-in-law's  perpetual  assumption  of  becoming 
roles  and  pathetic  poses  revolted  her  and  erected  a  bar- 
rier between  them,  the  elder  knowing  herself  seen 
through  and  the  younger  unable  to  conceal  her  impa- 
tience. 

When  the  gate  clicked  behind  Evelyn  that  afternoon 
and  her  trembling  feet  bore  her  away  from  the  home  in 
which  she  had  tasted  the  fulness  of  life  and  known  such 
deep  happiness  and  such  bitter  pain,  the  feeling  upper- 
most in  the  wild  chaos  of  her  overflooded  and  tumultu- 
ously  stirred  heart  was  relief  at  being  able  at  last  to 
throw  off  concealment  and  subterfuge,  and  look  the 
world  in  the  face  as  one  who  had  defied  it  openly  and 
given  up  all  for  love's  sake.  There  was  pain  and  even 
shame,  that  irrepressible  voice  of  conscience  and  fine 
instinct,  in  the  position,  but  the  very  pain  was  joyous, 
since  it  was  borne  for  the  beloved;  and,  besides,  it  was 
shared.  Yes,  all  her  life  was  shared  at  last;  a  strong 
arm  enfolded  her  weakness,  a  devoted  heart  sheltered 
and  sustained  her,  unfit  as  she  was  to  stand  alone.  She 
gloried  in  a  way  in  the  daring  and  decision  of  the  ter- 
rible step  she  was  taking;  she  was  glad  to  find  herself 
of  a  spirit  strong  enough  to  give  her  emotions  active 
expression,  and  reward  the  one  being  on  earth  who  loved 
and  understood  her  by  the  generous  and  ungrudging 
gift  of  herself,  body  and  soul. 


A   SLOW    HORSE  433 

'After  all,  it  had  been  terribly  easy  and  unheroic ;  no 
one  had  interfered;  Richard  had  almost  thrown  them 
into  each  other's  arms;  that  was  the  crudest  part.  He 
cared  too  little  to  feel  the  faintest  pang  of  jealousy ;  she 
had  never  been  worth  troubling  about  in  his  eyes.  What 
could  he  expect?  How  would  he  take  it?  He  would  be 
the  last  to  discover  it.  He  would  not  return  to  Wimbury 
till  New  Year's  Day,  and  then  would  simply  wonder 
what  had  become  of  the  piece  of  furniture  that  had  been 
so  long  in  its  place.  Some  one  would  tell  him,  and  then — 
Would  his  eyes  turn  cold  and  hard  ?  Would  they  blaze 
with  fury?  Would  he — no,  he  would  not  shed  a  tear. 

The  farther  she  went  on  that  ill-omened  journey,  the 
more  her  husband  dominated  and  absorbed  her  thoughts. 
All  his  sins  and  omissions  were  arraigned  before  her  and 
censured ;  all  her  own  sorrows  and  denials  in  highly  ex- 
aggerated coloring  set  to  his  account.  Never  wife  had 
been  so  cruelly  treated  as  she;  the  miserable  creatures 
beaten  and  kicked  and  dragged  by  the  hair  till  they 
died  had  by  comparison  been  kindly  used  by  their  harsh 
consorts.  Their  hearts  had  been  unbruised.  Besides, 
beating  and  kicking,  uncivil  as  it  was,  argued  an  amount 
of  interest  in  the  objects  of  their  violence  that  she  was 
certain  Richard  had  never  had  for  her.  She  doubted 
if  he  would  take  the  trouble  to  drag  her  round  the  room 
by  the  hair.  Husbands  did  that  and  were  forgiven,  after 
due  penitence.  And  yet 

And  yet  a  still,  small  voice  whispered  reproach  and 
condemnation,  stifle  it  as  she  would.  And  oh,  how 
happy  they  might  have  been  if  he  had  but  cared  for  her 
— and  for  the  baby!  And  why  had  he  looked  at  her 
that  very  morning  in  that  way? 

"Next  year,"  he  had  said,  when  he  went  off  with  that 
look  in  his  eyes,  "it  will  be  a  great  year  for  us,  Evelyn. 
I  shall  have  time  to  be  human  then."  Well,  he  certainly 
would. 

And  why  must  he  leave  his  watch  up-stairs  that  morn- 
ing, and  why  must  she — seeing  that  he  was  late  and 


434  RICHARD   ROSNY 

had  to  gather  his  things  together  over  a  half-finished 
breakfast — run  up  and  fetch  it  for  him,  like  the  docile 
household  slave  she  had  sunk  into?  There  it  was,  on 
the  table  by  his  solitary  bed,  attached  to  one  of  those 
double  chains  that  carry  a  watch  in  one  pocket  and  a 
sovereign-purse  in  the  other.  Richard's  watch  was  bal- 
anced, not  by  a  sovereign-purse,  but  a  locket,  which  was 
propped  open  on  the  little  table  visible  from  the  bed. 
And  in  the  locket  was  the  photograph  of  herself,  with 
baby  Gerald  smiling  over  her  shoulder,  and  the  sight 
of  it  smote  her  like  a  sword.  After  all,  it  was  just  like 
him  to  do  these  conventional  things  and  so  give  himself 
a  respectable  family  air;  Richard  had  always  been  so 
maddeningly  respectable.  She  loathed  respectability — it 
was  so  bourgeois. 

But  Ronald  had  too  much  poetry  to  be  respectable; 
he  was  with  her  in  hating  bourgeoisie;  they  were  both 
consumed  by  the  passion  for  beauty,  charm,  distinction, 
joyousness.  Were  they  not,  as  he  so  often  said,  made 
for  each  other,  with  the  same  tastes,  ideals,  and  aspira- 
tions? Did  they  not  differ  in  character  only  to  be  com- 
plimentary to  one  another,  the  two  halves  of  an  ideal 
whole,  fitting  each  exactly  to  either  1  Had  they  not  been 
blindly  and  unconsciously  seeking  each  other  all  their 
lives  long?  Was  it  not  really  Ronald  whom  she  had 
thought  to  find  in  Richard's  eyes  on  that  sunny  after- 
noon in  the  boat?  There  was  a  sanctity  in  this  union 
of  true  and  kindred  hearts  that  no  conventional  tie  or 
mere  church-spoken  marriage  could  possess ;  the  outward 
legalized  marriage  was  but  the  husk,  the  true  and  sac- 
ramental bond  was  the  dear  union  of  heart  and  soul,  to 
which  she  was  now  speeding  with  every  tick  of  the  watch 
at  her  side.  Oh !  it  was  very  sweet  and  restful  after  the 
long  agony  of  doubts  and  scruples,  the  long  mental  con- 
flict between  love  and  what  seemed  duty,  to  find  that 
love  and  duty  were  one,  that  there  was  an  ideal  right, 
beyond  and  above  the  poor  limits  of  conventional  right, 
and  that  she  had  found  and  was  following  it,  illumined 


A   SLOW    HORSE  435 

by  the  auroral  hues  of  a  dawning  happiness  beyond 
words,  beyond  imagination.  Yes,  the  bitter  conflict  was 
over  forever;  she  had  emerged  from  it  calm,  strong,  and 
utterly  happy,  purified  by  that  pain  and  purged  of  the 
crude  and  inadequate  and  utterly  wrong  principles 
which  had  cramped  her  so  long.  She  had  crossed  the 
Rubicon ;  there  could  be  no  going  back  now,  even  should 
the  old  scruple  specters  rise  again  and  shake  their  gory 
locks  at  her;  there  was  great  peace  in  that  thought;  it 
helped  increase  the  potency  of  the  exorcism.  Nothing 
more  to  be  troubled  about;  her  life  was  Ronald's;  his 
strong  and  capable  hands  would  mold  it  rightly  and 
happily. 

Yet  she  was  troubled.  How  slow  the  train  was  in 
dragging  itself  with  all  her  hopes  and  fears  from  station 
to  station,  and  what  ghastly,  groundless  misgivings  shook 
her  from  time  to  time!  Baby  Gerald's  face  rose  white 
and  waxen  from  the  tiny  coffin  in  which  she  had  laid  him 
with  such  agony  of  heart.  She  shrank  from  all  memory 
of  the  child  now.  The  ghosts  of  early  married  days  flitted 
unbidden  by,  each  with  a  bitter  heartache  for  her.  And 
the  fly  she  had  so  easily  found  and  stepped  into  crawled 
even  more  slowly  than  the  lagging  train ;  each  mile  that 
divided  her  from  the  shelter  of  the  beloved  arms  seemed 
longer  than  the  other.  She  looked  at  her  watch;  by 
this  time  Ronald  would  be  in  his  train ;  the  thought  made 
her  shudder  with  a  joy  that  was  half  fear.  A  month 
ago  her  life  had  been  all  despair;  and  now —  She  bent 
to  kiss  the  geranium-leaves  in  her  coat.  How  he  loved 
them!  They  were  Galeotto — they  and  the  sonata  to- 
gether. 

But  the  crawling  fly  had  stopped  altogether  on  the 
slope  of  a  windy  hill  in  a  long,  stone  lane,  far  from  any 
house. 

' '  Anything  wrong  ? ' '  she  asked,  looking  out  anxiously 
at  the  driver,  who  was  slowly  getting  off  the  box. 

"No,  m'm,  nothing  wrong,"  he  replied  cheerily. 
"Only  a  stone  the  hoss  have  picked  up." 


436  RICHARD    ROSNY 

The  wind  whistled  over  the  sunset-stained,  green 
slopes  on  either  side  of  the  hedges;  she  heard  a  train 
rumble  away  down  the  valley  into  silence  and  was  con- 
scious of  the  rustle  of  wings  overhead.  Strange  gut- 
turals and  gruff  interjections  from  the  driver  to  the 
patient  horse:  "Hyste  up. — Steady. — Stand  stull. — 
Whurr."  Each  foot  was  pulled  from  under  the  unwill- 
ing and  astonished  steed  in  turn,  and  after  careful  ex- 
amination of  the  upturned  hoof  was  set  down  again,  to 
its  owner's  satisfaction. 

"He've  a  got  a  stone  in  his  off  forefoot,"  Evelyn 
heard  at  last  with  impatience,  just  as  she  thought  the 
whole  trouble  at  an  end.  Then  a  huge,  many-bladed 
clasp-knife  was  slowly  rummaged  for  in  an  endless 
sequence  of  pockets,  and  having  been  slowly  and  with 
great  difficulty  and  much  puffing  and  blowing  abstracted 
from  enormous  depths,  was  even  more  slowly  opened. 
''He  do  open  hard,  this  here  knife,"  the  man  explained 
when  the  right  blade  at  last  clicked  into  place;  "the 
rain  rusts  en." 

Then  a  coat  was  thoughtfully  and  deliberately  taken 
off,  and  the  amazed  horse,  perfectly  aware  that  nothing 
whatever  was  wrong,  was  once  more  adjured  in  gruff 
gutturals  to  "hyste  up"  his  off  forefoot,  over  the  iron 
circle  of  which  the  clasp-knife  rasped  and  rasped,  till 
the  driver  rose  from  his  kneeling  position,  puffed  deeply, 
and  drew  a  handkerchief  over  his  face  as  if  exhausted. 
Then  again  kneeling,  he  bid  the  indignant  quadruped 
once  more  to  "hyste  up"  an  unoffending  forefoot, 
over  the  iron  of  which  the  clasp-knife  once  more  rasped 
with  many  interruptions  of  equine  fidgets  at  being  made 
a  fool  of,  rebuked  in  gruff  human  monosyllables.  Then 
at  last  with  a  loud  exclamation  the  man  fell  backward 
into  the  hedge-bank,  as  if  let  go  by  a  spring,  all  a-sprawl, 
with  a  flint-stone  in  one  hand  and  the  knife  in  the  other, 
while  the  horse,  quietly  dropping  his  hoof  on  the  road, 
turned  his  wise  face  to  survey  what  he  knew  to  be  a  very 
poor  histrionic  display  with  a  look  of  unutterable  con- 


A   SLOW   HORSE  437 

tempt.  "Got  en  out  at  last,"  cried  the  driver  in  tri- 
umph. "Wedged  hard  in  between  the  frog  and  the 
shoe  he  was.  And  a  tough  job  to  get  en  out  as  ever  I 
known." 

He  brought  an  angular  flint  up  to  the  window  and 
pointed  out  the  extreme  inconvenience  of  its  presence 
in  a  horse 's  foot.  ' '  Good  job  it  didn  't  make  en  go  lame, 
enough  to  cut  the  foot  all  to  pieces,"  he  said,  while  Eve- 
lyn looked  at  her  watch  in  despair  and  besought  him  to 
drive  on  as  fast  as  possible. 

"You  little  know  how  much  depends  on  my  catching 
that  train,"  she  said. 

"Don't  you  trouble  yessulf,  the  hoss'll  go  double  as 
quick,  now  he's  rid  of  the  stone,"  he  replied,  winding 
himself  with  irritating  slowness  into  what  seemed  to  be 
the  tightest-fitting  coat  ever  worn.  "We  must  let  the 
poor  beast  stanH  a  bit  till  the  pain's  out,  ma'am.  In- 
spector med  come  round  corner  any  minute." 

"The  inspector?     What  inspector?" 

' '  The  society 's  inspector ;  I  seen  him  about  here  yes- 
terday— cruelty  to  animals.  We  should  look  middlen 
f ullish  if  we  was  stopped  by  he. ' ' 

The  indignity  of  the  mischance  was  even  more  revolt- 
ing to  Evelyn  than  the  mischance  itself;  to  be  stopped 
on  a  journey  of  such  moment,  an  episode  in  a  poem  of 
such  passionate  splendor,  was  to  be  insulted  as  well  as 
injured  by  Fate.  That  the  union  of  two  hearts  and 
lives  should  be  deferred — of  course  it  could  not  be  pre- 
vented— by  a  stone  in  the  foot  of  a  fly-horse,  was  a  trick 
worthy  of  the  meanest  and  most  grotesque  demon  ever 
cast  out  of  a  cathedral  to  grin  as  a  gargoyle. 

The  lane  was  steep  and  stony;  the  horse  crawled 
slowly,  the  driver  walking  by  his  side,  to  the  summit  of 
the  hill,  where  he  stopped,  as  the  man  explained,  to  get 
his  wind,  Evelyn  vainly  suggesting  that  a  fresh  horse 
might  be  hired  or  even  borrowed  from  the  nearest  sta- 
ble, if  this  one  was,  as  it  appeared,  worn  out. 

' '  Don 't  you  fret,  ma  'am, ' '  her  charioteer  said  caress- 


438  RICHARD   ROSNY 

ingly,  "I'll  get  ye  along  somehow  orn  other,  no  fear, 
Once  the  hoss  have  got  his  wind,  he'll  go  like  a  bird." 

Presumably  the  poor  animal  never  got  his  wind,  for 
his  rate  of  progress  on  that  journey  never  resembled 
that  of  any  known  bird;  nor  could  Evelyn  remember 
any  beast  that  could  parallel  the  slowness  of  his  steady 
jog-trot.  She  began  to  hope  the  train  would  be  late — 
trains  so  often  are,  except  when  any  good  is  to  be  gained 
by  their  delay.  Fortunately  the  contingency  of  her 
missing  the  train  and  boat  had  been  foreseen  and  pro- 
vided for ;  she  was  to  take  the  next  boat  and  find  him  on 
the  Shackleton  landing-stage  in  that  event,  which  was 
too  painful  to  contemplate. 

The  bright  day  had  closed  in  with  a  biting  chill 
under  the  glowing  sunset;  the  damp  of  rising  fog  pene- 
trated everywhere  except  to  the  slow  driver  of  that  slow 
horse.  The  carriage-lamps  had  to  be  lighted  then,  and 
this  involved  turning  out  of  the  way  to  get  matches  at  a 
roadside  cottage  and  some  mysterious  adjustment  of  the 
candles  that  seemed  to  take  endless  time.  Fate  certainly 
was  in  a  freakish  mood  to-night.  Who  ever  heard  of  a 
flyman  without  matches  in  his  pocket?  How  Ronald 
would  laugh  over  these  small  tragedies !  She  could  not 
see  the  time  by  her  watch,  nor  could  she  recognize  the 
roads  along  which  they  drove  in  the  darkness.  But  the 
suburbs  were  reached  and  ended  at  last,  and  she  joy- 
ously recognized  the  main  street  of  St.  Ann 's,  all  blazing 
with  gas-lamps  and  lighted  shops,  with  the  rarer  bril- 
liance of  electric  light  mocking  the  moon  here  and  there. 
The  town-hall  clock  flung  a  musical  chime  upon  the  air 
as  they  passed;  she  could  not  quite  catch  it,  but  sadly 
feared  it  was  already  five,  and  called  to  the  man  to 
quicken  his  pace,  which  he  cheerfully  did,  recognizing 
the  half-hour  chime  and  anticipating  his  two  shining 
sovereigns  with  a  light  heart. 

' '  At  last ! ' '  Evelyn  sighed,  a  curious  pain  tightening 
her  heart  and  making  her  breath  come  chokingly,  as  the 
fly  rattled  round  the  corner  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 


A   SLOW    HORSE  439 

and,  rumbling  along  the  street,  came  out  upon  the 
esplanade  in  view  of  the  dark  immensity  of  the  sea, 
where  the  quiet  waves  broke  very  gently  upon  the  wall, 
and  drew  up  before  the  pier-head  station. 

For  one  moment  Evelyn's  courage  gave  way,  a  full 
sense  of  the  wrong  she  was  doing  rushed  upon  her,  and 
she  sank  back  in  the  darkness  of  the  fly  with  terror  and 
pain.  Then  Ronald's  face,  moved  as  she  had  seen  it  in 
the  morning,  came  before  her,  and  a  great  wave  of  pas- 
sion surged  up  and  swept  her  off  her  feet.  She  sprang 
from  the  fly,  gave  the  money,  which  was  already  in  her 
hand,  to  the  treacherous  driver,  and,  too  hurried  to  see 
if  she  were  in  time,  passed  quickly  into  the  little  station 
and  out  upon  the  platform,  where  a  train  was  about  to 
stop,  looking  dizzily  through  the  thick  veil  she  had 
pinned  on,  for  the  first-class  reserved  carriage  she  had 
been  told  to  expect,  and  dimly  congratulating  herself 
upon  being  in  time,  after  all. 

But  carriage  after  carriage  was  examined  and 
neither  the  reserved  label  nor  the  expected  face  was  dis- 
cernible ;  people  were  stepping  in,  porters  hurrying  and 
hustling.  She  realized  that  there  was  a  hitch  somewhere, 
and  was  just  asking  if  this  were  not  the  5.15  boat  train 
when  a  hand  was  laid  on  her  arm  and  a  low  voice  said 
' '  Evelyn, ' '  and  she  turned  with  a  faint  cry  to  see  Nancy 
at  her  side. 

"You  are  too  late,"  Nancy  said;  "this  train  is  for 
the  5.50  boat." 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  Evelyn  asked,  startled 
out  of  all  presence  of  mind. 

"I  am  come  to  meet  you  and  take  you  home,"  she 
said,  drawing  her  toward  the  waiting-room,  just  as 
Rosny,  hidden  in  a  group  of  two  or  three  more  passen- 
gers from  the  fog-delayed  boat,  hurried  by  on  his  way 
out  of  the  station,  unseen  by  either. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

NANCY'S  TEIUMPH 

ROSNY  must  have  passed  Musgrave  within  twenty  or 
thirty  yards  when  he  stepped  off.  the  gangway  of  the 
belated  boat ;  but  so  full  of  thoughts  and  emotions  were 
both  that  they  might  almost  have  rubbed  shoulders  in 
the  crowd  without  recognizing  each  other. 

''You  forget,"  Musgrave  had  said  to  Nancy,  when 
he  recovered  from  the  shock  of  that  spectral  appearance 
in  the  water,  "that  your  very  anxiety  to  prevent  my 
going  back  to  the  pier-head  clearly  shows  that  the  lady 
I  wish  to  meet  is  there." 

' '  I  can  not  tell  where  she  is  at  this  moment, ' '  Nancy 
said.  "But  if  you  go  back  to  look  for  her  now  it  will 
be  with  me." 

"  If  I  go  by  the  next  boat  will  you  promise  to  deliver 
a  note  to  her  by  six  o'clock  this  evening?"  he  asked, 
after  a  little  thought,  and  she  promised,  and  he  wrote  as 
follows : 

' '  The  bearer  must  have  overheard  us  on  the  cliff  this 
morning.  She  came  in  your  place,  determined  to  frus- 
trate our  plans.  Humor  and  get  rid  of  her,  and  come 
on  by  any  boat  you  can  catch  to-night.  I  shall  be  at  the 
gangway  watching  every  Shackleton  boat  off.  Should 
all  fail  to  bring  you,  I  shall  put  up  at  the  Pier  Hotel 
to-night,  and  unless  I  receive  a  telegram  by  ten  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning,  shall  be  in  the  orchard  at  1  P.  M. 
If  N.  R.  is  troublesome  give  her  in  charge  of  police.  Be 
brave  and  come  quickly." 

Armed  with  this,  Nancy  sprang  into  one  of  the  per- 
petually gliding  tram-cars  just  in  time  to  reach  the  pier- 
440 


NANCY'S   TRIUMPH  441 

head  and  pay  the  expectant  flyman  before  stopping 
Evelyn,  while  Musgrave,  glad  to  be  rid  of  her  and  yet 
angry  with  himself  for  not  going  boldly  back  to  the  ap- 
pointed meeting-place  and  carrying  Evelyn  off  in  spite 
of  her,  lit  a  cigar  and  walked  up  and  down  a  sheltered 
piece  of  planking  to  wait  for  the  next  train. 

Evelyn  was  so  sensitive,  he  reflected ;  she  could  never 
have  borne  the  coarse  and  jarring  experience  of  the  pub- 
lic opposition  Nancy  was  capable  of  making.  Capable? 
That  dreadful  girl  was  capable  of  anything;  and,  after 
all,  Evelyn  could  not  be  expected  to  recover  all  in  a 
moment  from  the  shock  of  learning  of  his  relations  with 
Mabel  Weston.  It  might  not  be  wise  to  meet  her  just 
now,  and  dare  all  and  perhaps  lose  all.  Evelyn  was  so 
ignorant  of  life,  so  exquisitely  innocent  of  its  harsher, 
coarser  aspects;  the  shock  to  her  would  be  too  severe. 
But  what  will  a  woman  not  condone  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
passion?  The  first  shock  past,  her  love  might  be  deep- 
ened and  strengthened  by  the  knowledge  of  the  bonds  he 
had  broken  for  her  sake,  and  she  was  too  irretrievably 
committed  now  to  draw  back;  Nancy's  knowledge,  which 
was  probably  Rosny  's,  or  at  least  would  be,  was  too  com- 
promising. 

But  what  tale  was  this  that  Nancy  had  so  pat,  of 
inquests  in  local  papers  ?  Could  she  have  invented  it  ? — 
ah!  that  spectral  plaque  of  light  on  the  water  again — 
could  she?  Yet  how  could  she  have  become  acquainted 
with  all  the  too  accurate  details  of  that  unlucky  entangle- 
ment? He  actually  at  that  moment  had  an  unopened 
letter  from  Mabel  in  his  possession ;  it  had  been  received 
at  the  Retreat,  pocketed  unread  and  forgotten,  until 
again  discovered  in  the  process  of  packing  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  servant,  when  it  had  again  been  put  out  of 
sight  to  await  destruction  at  the  first  opportunity.  It 
was  not  to  be  read;  all  that  ugly  chapter  of  life  was 
definitely  closed  and  sealed  to  oblivion.  But  in  view  of 
Nancy  Rosny 's  extraordinary  assertions,  it  would  be 
reassuring  to  read  poor  Mabel's  letter  before  destroying 


442  RICHARD    ROSNY 

it.  He  found  the  much  redirected  and  traveled  envelope 
and  read  it  under  the  gas  in  the  waiting-room.  The 
Plymouth  postmark  was  four  days  old,  but  the  letter 
was  dated  the  23d — a  week  ago — and  the  first  sentence 
convinced  him  that  Nancy's  tale  was  true  and  the  wri- 
ter's heart  cold  before  the  letter  had  been  posted.  This 
was  indeed  Nemesis. 

Evelyn  had  been  too  much  dazed  by  the  sudden  onset 
of  Nancy  and  the  knowledge  that  she  had  missed  the 
five-o'clock  train  to  resist  being  taken  by  her  into  the 
waiting-room;  but  when  she  found  herself  there  alone 
with  Nancy,  she  quickly  recovered  her  self-possession. 

"I  must  catch  this  train,"  she  said,  trying  to  push 
her  way  out  of  the  room. 

' '  You  must  do  nothing  of  the  kind, ' '  Nancy  returned, 
stepping  in  front  of  her  and  keeping  her  back.  "I 
bring  you  a  message  from  Captain  Musgrave." 

Evelyn  went  white.  ' '  What  can  you  mean  1 ' '  she  fal- 
tered, turning  back. 

"He  has  had  some  unpleasant  news,"  Nancy  said, 
opening  a  scrap  of  newspaper  and  spreading  it  out 
under  the  flickering  gaslight.  "You  had  better  read 
it,  too." 

"Are  you  mad?"  Evelyn  asked  despairingly,  as  she 
heard  the  train  roll  away ;  and  then,  raising  her  veil,  she 
cast  her  eyes  over  the  paragraph  recording  the  inquest. 
She  read  it  several  times,  a  stony  horror  spreading  over 
her  face  as  she  read.  Then  she  looked  up  in  Nancy's 
face  with  piteous,  childish  appeal.  "What  does  it 
mean?"  she  asked.  "It  must  be  an  assumed  name.  Or 
there  must  be  many  Ronald  Musgraves." 

"And  all  at  Wimbury?"  Nancy  returned. 

"The  woman  was  mad,"  Evelyn  whispered  with  hor- 
ror-stricken eyes.  "It  was — not — true." 

"A  singular  invention.  Wimbury  is  not  quite  the 
center  of  the  universe." 

Evelyn  gasped  painfully;  her  soft,  white  brow  was 
all  wet  under  its  tendrils  of  straying  hair;  she  wrung 


NANCY'S    TRIUMPH  443 

her  hands  fiercely  together  and  looked  fixedly  at  the 
matting  at  her  feet,  opening  and  shutting  her  mouth 
and  apparently  striving  to  overcome  some  unspeakable 
emotion. 

"Supposing  it  to  be  true,"  she  said  at  last;  "what 
right  have  we  to  pry  into  his  private  affairs?" 

"What  right  indeed?  But  inquests  and  newspapers 
are  scarcely  private.  Evelyn,  I  know  why  you  are  here. 
No  one  else  shall  know  it,  no  one  else  need  ever  know  it. 
Dear  Evelyn,  let  me  take  you  home  by  the  next  train; 
let  me, ' '  she  implored. 

' '  And  pray,  why  am  I  here  ? ' '  she  asked,  looking  with 
haughty  defiance  straight  into  Nancy's  honest  eyes. 

"Oh,  Evelyn,  dear  Evelyn,  poor  Evelyn!  you  know 
and  I  know, ' '  Nancy  sobbed.  ' '  Oh !  how  could  you,  how 
could  you?  How  can  you  forget  Richard,  ever  forget 
little  Gerald,  forget  yourself?  Oh!  what  infatuation, 
what  blind  folly  could  have  brought  you  so  far?" 

"St.  Ann's  is  no  great  distance  from — home.  Pray 
what  infatuation  brought  you  equally  far?" 

"Love  brought  me,  Evelyn;  love  for  you,  and  for 
Richard,  and  for  all  that  makes  life  livable,  and  for 
the  old,  pleasant  days  we  have  had  together.  How  could 
I  see  you — oh!  how  could  I?  I  never  suspected  it  till 
this  morning,  and  Richard — poor,  trusting  Richard — 
never  suspected  it  at  all.  Oh,  Evelyn,  what  a  love  and 
trust  is  there,  what  a  heart  of  gold  is  yours  to  break  and 
torture,  what  a  happiness  to  throw  away !  I  came  back 
this  morning  to  ask  you  to  be  careful — I  was  told  that 
his  attentions  had  been  observed  and  gossiped  about. 
You  were  out — gone  the  sea  way,  they  said — so  I  went 
down  the  cliff,  and  the  wind  wras  blowing  in  from  the 
sea,  and  I  saw  no  one,  but  I  overheard  this  appointment 
before  there  was  time " 

"Ah!"  Evelyn  replied,  lifting  eyes  blank  with  de- 
spair to  Nancy's.  "So  you  kept  my  appointment  for 
me?  So  you  tried  to  rob  me  of  my  one  only  chance  of 
happiness?  Let  me  go,  let  me  go!" 


444  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Stay!"  Nancy  said  gently;  "I  promised  to  give 
you  this  letter." 

"Ah!  you  come  from  him!    Where  is  he?" 

"On  the  way  to  Shackleton." 

"Very  well,"  Evelyn  said,  after  reading  the  note 
and  tearing  it  slowly  to  ribbons.  "Now  leave  me. 
Haven't  you  tortured  me  almost  enough?" 

"Oh,  you  poor  child!"  cried  Nancy,  drawing  the 
white,  miserable  face  down  on  her  shoulder,  where  it 
rested  with  a  pitiful  listlessness.  "How  could  I  do 
otherwise?  To-morrow  would  have  been  too  late." 

"So  is  to-day,"  she  sighed,  without  raising  her 
head. 

"Not  to-day.  There  has  been  folly,  infatuation,  but 
no  irreparable  wrong,  Evelyn;  of  that  I  am  convinced. 
There  has  been  no  compromise  in  the  world's  eyes,  no 
hopeless  compromise." 

"Let  me  die,  let  me  die!"  she  moaned,  clinging  to 
Nancy. 

"Come  home,  dear.  People  will  be  coming  in  here; 
they  are  passing  and  looking  in  even  now.  Let  us  drive 
part  of  the  way — to  be  alone  together.  Come  out  and 
I  will  call  a  fly." 

"I  will  never  go  home,"  she  said  with  a  shudder. 

"Evelyn,"  Nancy  said,  leaving  the  caressing  tone  she 
had  been  using,  "you  will  not  go  to — that  man?" 

"He — he — is  not  what  I  thought  him.  Oh,  it  breaks 
my  heart,"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  indescribable  misery. 
"But — but  he  is  all  to  me.  He,  whatever  he  may  be — 
oh,  Nancy,  how  should  you  understand,  a  girl  like  you? 
— he  loves  me  and  he  needs  me.  How  can  I  desert  him  ? 
Go  away,  dear;  you  have  done  what  you  could.  Go. 
Good-by." 

' '  Does  he  love  you,  does  he  need  you,  as  your  greatly 
wronged  husband  does  ?  How  can  you  desert  and  betray 
him?"  Nancy  asked  in  a  low,  fierce  tone,  withdrawing  her 
from  the  observation  of  the  people  who  were  dropping 
into  the  waiting-room,  and  going  out  into  the  open  air 


NANCY'S   TRIUMPH  445 

with  her.  "How  can  you  desecrate  your  best  memories, 
yourself,  your  past  life  ?  Have  you  no  fear  of  God,  Eve- 
lyn ?  Have  you  no  sense  of  honor,  none  of  duty  1  Do  you 
owe  nothing  to  the  man  whose  name  you  bear? — the  man 
whose  life  is  bound  up  in  yours? — owe  nothing  to  the 
sanctity  of  marriage,  to  the  dignity  of  our  sex?  And 
when  you  have  betrayed  the  love  and  trust  and  broken 
the  heart  and  ruined  the  life  and  soiled  the  honor  of  your 
husband,  what  good  will  you  do  to  the  profligate  who 
has  beguiled  you  ?  What  will  it  profit  him  to  add  to  his 
sins?  What  woman's  lawless  love  ever  benefited  any 
man  in  all  the  whole  wide  world's  history?  What  but 
misery  and  mutual  disgust  can  come  of  such  things? 
How  soon  would  he  tire  and  cool?  How  will  you  like 
to  cut  him  off  from  all  social  and  family  intercourse,  to 
be  a  drag  upon  him,  and  a  shame  to  him?  Oh,  if  you 
loved  him  and  he  loved  you,  that  would  be  the  bitterest 
drop  of  all.  Your  wickedness  has  already  driven  one 
poor  creature  to  death,  and  made  orphans  of  her  worse 
than  fatherless  children.  Isn  't  that  mischief  enough  for 
one  lifetime?  Come  home,  Evelyn;  come  home!" 

She  had  drawn  her  along  the  esplanade  beneath  the 
spindling  trees,  where  few  walked  at  this  chill  season 
and  where  the  mist  made  strange  blurs  of  the  gas-lamps, 
and  the  dark  sea  at  full  tide  moaned  and  sobbed  upon 
the  long  sea-wall,  foaming  faintly  over  the  groins  in  its 
roll.  Then  Evelyn  suddenly  stopped  and  faced  about. 
She  seemed  to  see  a  woman's  body  tossing  in  the  surge, 
and  hear  a  woman's  voice  in  its  low  moan. 

"And  what,"  she  asked,  "what  of  the  degradation 
of  a  loveless  marriage,  the  long-drawn  agony  of  it,  the 
hopeless,  perpetual  fretting  of  the  chain?" 

"No,  Evelyn,  you  loved  him;  you  know  that  you 
loved  him  well  at  first. ' ' 

"At  first?  Ah!  at  first.  But  he  threw  it  all  away. 
It  was  a  stuff  for  which  he  had  no  use.  He  couldn't 
represent  it  in  coin  of  the  realm." 

"How  you  misunderstand  Richard,  Evelyn!     He  is 

CO 


446  RICHARD   ROSNY 

great-hearted.  He  is  a  silent  man.  Such  men  often 
have  the  deepest  feelings." 

"Nancy,  he  still  cares  for  Kathleen.  He  never  cared 
for  me.  He  even  told  me  so, ' '  she  wept.  ' '  I  will  never 
go  back  to  him — never." 

They  were  walking  on  through  the  misty  uncertainty 
of  the  gaslight,  leaving  the  sea  for  the  streets,  where  the 
fog  was  thinned  and  the  light  augmented  by  the  bril- 
liance of  shop-windows.  Nancy  felt  that  she  was  de- 
feated and  realized  sadly  enough  that  some  hurts  are 
beyond  healing. 

Yet  Evelyn  leaned  upon  her  arm,  and  made  no  fur- 
ther attempt  to  leave  her.  People  passed  and  repassed, 
going  in  and  out  of  the  shops,  stopping  before  windows, 
going  up  and  down  the  steps  of  hotels  and  clubs ;  cheer- 
ful, careless,  busy  people  in  furs  and  greatcoats;  car- 
riages rumbled  by ;  here  a  motor-car  groaned  and  rattled, 
pouring  out  clouds  of  steam  and  leaving  evil  smells  in 
its  noisy  wake;  here  a  bicycle  whizzed  past;  and,  Avhen 
they  were  climbing  the  steep  main  street  near  the  As- 
sembly Rooms,  Nancy  saw  a  tall  man  straining  stiffly  up 
the  hill  on  a  cycle  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road; 
he  had  already  passed  them  before  she  caught  sight  of 
him  in  the  misty  light  bending  and  pedaling  labori- 
ously, yet  the  figure  recalled  Richard's.  Evelyn  had 
stopped  at  a  print-shop  window  with  ebbing  breath  and 
whirling  pulse;  but  she  saw  nothing  in  the  street;  her 
eyes  had  been  caught  by  a  photogravure  of  one  of 
Raphael's  Madonnas,  with  the  Eternal  Child  clinging 
to  the  Eternal  Mother,  the  divine  in  the  human.  What 
hidden  fiber  of  her  burdened  heart  that  familiar  glory 
of  art  touched  may  not  be  told.  The  maiden  mother's 
soft  gaze  pierced  her,  the  babe's  glance  of  divinest  pity 
smote  her,  and  she  fell  all  her  length  on  the  pavement, 
whence  Nancy  raised  her  and,  with  the  help  of  a  man 
hurrying  by,  carried  her  into  the  shop. 

When  Richard  sat  in  the  parlor  that  night  listening 
for  the  footstep  his  reason  told  him  would  never  again 


NANCY'S    TRIUMPH  447 

be  heard  there,  it  came  into  his  mind  that  Evelyn  must 
have  passed  many  and  many  a  night  so,  sitting  in  that 
very  chair,  where  he  had  found  her  often  patiently  wait- 
ing for  him,  alone  with  the  dog  and  cat.  There  the  crea- 
tures lay  to-night  in  the  strange  animal  sleep  that  leaves 
some  unknown  and  unnamed  sense  awake  to  listen  and 
watch;  now  an  ear  would  point  or  an  eye  blink  faintly 
at  some  infinitesimal  sound  beyond  human  perception, 
else  they  were  wrapped  in  blissful  somnolence  in  the 
peaceful  warmth,  while  the  flame  flapped  drowsily  in 
the  grate,  cinders  tinkled,  furniture  creaked,  a  semi- 
musical  sound  escaped  the  piano,  the  clock  ticked,  and 
all  the  house  was  silent  and  asleep.  So  she  must  have 
sat  night  after  night,  he  thought,  refusing,  and,  as  it 
now  seemed  to  him,  rightly,  to  go  into  society  without 
him,  weary  and  sick  to  death  of  the  narrow  bounds  of 
that  familiar  room. 

His  sisters  called  her  dull,  his  mother  unsociable  and 
reserved ;  else  she  might  have  been  less  lonely.  Why  had 
those  ladies  not  amalgamated?  Whose  was  the  fault? 
She  had  been  right  in  not  having  the  brothers  there  too 
much;  after  all,  she  had  had  more  wisdom  in  her  inex- 
perienced youth  than  he  in  his  world-worn  maturity. 
It  was  just  that  he  should  sit  there  childless  by  a  dese- 
crated hearth.  But  she,  had  she  deserved  the  fiery  temp- 
tation to  which  she  had  succumbed  ?  He  had  trusted  too 
much,  where  overtrust  was  a  crime;  too  much  he  had 
trusted  that  friend,  who  was  still  the  soul  of  honor.  He 
had  wronged  her  in  marrying  her  and  caging  her  here 
alone  to  share  only  the  few  scanty  snatches  of  leisure  his 
life  afforded,  and  be  entirely  cut  off  from  the  main 
stream  of  it.  He  had  tried  to  do  two  incompatible  things 
— to  lead  a  life  of  lonely  renunciation  and  one  of  mar- 
ried happiness.  The  blame  was  entirely  his.  All  had 
been  against  her — the  Tantalus  sorrow  of  the  baby's 
quickly-snatched  life,  the  loneliness  and  dreariness  of 
her  days,  the  sudden  temptation  of  that  ill-advised  inti- 
macy. He  saw  them  dancing  in  the  moonlight.  Ah! 


448  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Caesar's  wife,  not  uncorrupted  alone,  but  incorruptible, 
who  shall  find  you  in  all  the  wide  world?  And  found, 
who  shall  love  you  in  your  pale  and  passionless  perfec- 
tion? Yet  if  Evelyn  could  fall,  purity  itself  had  faded. 

Would  it  were  I  had  been  false,  not  you, 
I  that  am  nothing,  not  you  that  are  all. 

The  awful  blank  of  the  heavy  fog-wrapped  night, 
whence  every  star  was  blotted  and  every  gleam  of  break- 
ing cloud  hidden,  was  like  the  dead  void  of  nothing,  the 
negation  of  being.  It  was  like  the  blank  agony  of  his 
own  soul,  whence  the  face  of  God  was  withdrawn  because 
of  sin  long  past.  That  agony  must  come,  it  was  just ;  it 
was  the  penal  fire  to  purge  the  dross.  But  he  could 
neither  pray  nor  hope.  He  caught  the  fierce  glitter  of 
lamplight  on  the  swords  and  a  dreadful  joy  glittered 
responsively  in  his  eyes.  There  was  one  way  to  wash  out 
the  stain,  and  the  sword  revealed  it,  spoke  of  it,  sang  of 
it  in  its  rhythmic  glitter.  Oh !  the  sword,  the  virile,  all- 
cleansing  sword !  No  knot  so  complex  but  gallant  sword 
can  cut  it,  no  anguish  so  bitter  but  swift  sword  may 
end  it.  He  was  a  man  and  no  worm,  after  all. 

But  what  voice  was  speaking  across  the  blank  silence 
of  the  night,  rough,  untutored,  stern,  and  kind? 

"Down  on  your  knees,  Richard  Rosny,  and  set  to 
work  and  pray.  Set  to  work  and  pray  as  though  you 
was  hung  over  hell  fire  aready,  like  to  be  chocked  by  the 
roke  of  it,  and  like  to  be  shrove  by  the  vlare  of  it — as 
though  nothing  only  the  grace  of  God  could  hyste  ye 
up  safe  and  sound  again." 

It  was  a  friend's  voice  speaking  clearly  through  the 
sorrows  of  death  which  encompassed  him,  and  the  pains 
of  hell  which  had  hold  of  him.  Just  then  a  little  sportive 
flame  leaped  up  with  a  cheery  flutter  from  the  grate  and 
danced  like  a  joyous  child  in  shadowy  corners,  magni- 
fying this  and  minimizing  that,  and  bringing  all  pro- 
portion out  of  things.  It  threw  a  long,  quivering  shadow 
over  the  swords,  and  lit  up  a  photogravure  in  a  dead 


NANCY'S   TRIUMPH  449 

gold  mount  so  vividly  that  the  calm  and  sweet  and 
pathetic  face  of  the  Sistine  Madonna  seemed  to  be  advan- 
cing from  the  golden  glow  and  offering  to  the  world, 
enthroned  on  her  arms,  the  Child  in  whose  deep  and 
solemnly  tender  gaze  lies  the  whole  mystery  of  eternity 
and  the  whole  insoluble  riddle  of  humanity.  The  vision 
dimmed  with  the  dying  flame,  but  glowed  on  vividly  in 
his  soul — awful  purity,  divine  power,  and  love  and  pity 
enshrined  in  the  helpless  beauty  of  an  unconscious  child. 
Such  a  gaze,  far-off,  divine,  and  wistfully  tender,  comes 
at  times  from  many  a  mortal  babe;  he  had  seen  it  once, 
with  awe  and  love  unspeakable,  in  his  own  little  son's 
eyes — the  last  look  before  death — he  would  see  it  again, 
the  first  in  the  new  life.  The  splendor  of  unseen  things, 
the  deep  symbolism  of  those  primary  emotions  that 
are  the  roots  of  our  being  and  the  sources  of  all  our 
joys,  the  glory  and  awe  of  womanhood,  and  the  rev- 
erence due  to  it — all  came  upon  him,  with  the  strongly 
realized  feeling  that  the  Incarnation  has  indeed  re- 
deemed our  race;  his  burdened  heart  overflowed  in 
tears,  and  his  sins  fell  away  from  him  like  a  garment 
shed. 

When  the  house-clock  struck  five  and  the  church- 
clock  repeated  it  in  the  clear  and  thrilling  voice  that 
seems  so  much  farther  off  by  night  than  by  day,  he 
stole  up-stairs  through  the  dark  and  silent  house,  and 
slept  fitfully  till  daylight.  It  was  a  ghastly  thing  to 
come  down  to  breakfast  again  and  miss  the  beautiful 
face  and  ministering  hand,  a  ghastly  thing  to  sort  the 
pile  of  letters,  and  anticipate  one  from  Evelyn  to  make 
this  dark  calamity  certain  beyond  all  doubt.  But  he 
found  none.  He  would  say  that  she  was  gone  away  for 
change ;  there  should  be  no  divorce ;  a  way  of  repentance 
should  be  kept  open.  He  who  had  been  so  greatly  for- 
given could  and  should  greatly  forgive. 

The  fog  had  rolled  away ;  lovely  filigree  of  hoar-frost 
glittered  on  every  feathering  branch  of  the  lindens.  The 
morning  was  so  still  that  the  sea's  pulse  was  audible, 


450  RICHARD   ROSNY 

the  boom  of  a  ground-swell  beginning  to  beat,  the  sooth- 
ing sound  he  had  listened  for  as  a  child. 

A  letter  from  Herbert  Mayne.  "Dear  Rosny:  Can 
you  by  any  possibility  give  the  lecture  with  limelight 
illustrations  on  the  2d?  Musgrave  left  unexpectedly 
yesterday.  I  can  think  of  no  one  but  you  to  take  his 
place."  Unexpectedly — yesterday.  Might  it  have  been 
unpremeditated — a  sudden  temptation?  Mayne  sus- 
pected nothing,  it  was  evident. 

Rosny  was  still  there  writing  at  midday.  Fluff  and 
Rollo  lay  restless  on  the  rug,  vexed  and  puzzled  by  the 
change  in  the  clock-like  household  routine,  sometimes 
starting  up  and  going  to  the  window,  Fluff  stalking  lion- 
like,  his  plumy  tail  anxiously  swaying,  Rollo  fussing  and 
dancing  in  quick,  uneasy  jerks.  Suddenly  Rollo  leaped 
up  with  a  sharp,  joyous  bark,  and  Fluff  uncoiled  him- 
self slowly  and  listened.  Richard's  heart  throbbed  like 
a  sledge-hammer,  and  his  ears  sang  at  the  sound  of 
light  steps  outside  and  the  quick  opening  of  the  hall 
door  and  inburst  of  women 's  voices.  In  another  moment 
in  came,  with  a  rush  of  fresh  air  and  a  rustle  of  skirts, 
Evelyn  and  Nancy,  both  starting  at  sight  of  him  with  a 
simultaneous  cry  of  "Richard!"  He  stood  up  in  his 
place  facing  them,  speechless. 

"Richard!"  cried  Evelyn.  "You  here?  At  this 
time  of  day  ?  Is  anything  wrong  ? ' '  she  added,  with  such 
genuine  concern  and  uneasiness  as  set  his  mind  free  from 
the  last  shadow  of  fear. 

"Wrong?"  he  almost  sobbed,  taking  her  in  his  arms. 
"Nothing  can  be  wrong  now.  But  the  fright  you  gave 
me !  My  dear  child,  where  have  you  been  ? ' '  He  kissed 
her  so  fervently  that  her  faint  shiver  of  repulsion 
escaped  his  notice ;  then  he  turned  to  Nancy,  whose  face 
was  a  study. 

"So,  Miss  Nancy,  this  is  your  work,"  he  said. 
"Where  in  the  world  have  you  been?" 

' '  My  work, ' '  Nancy  echoed  rather  grimly.  ' '  0  Dick ! 
how  like  a  man  to  come  home  on  this  particular  morn- 


NANCY'S   TRIUMPH  451 

ing!  You  said  you  were  off  till  the  New  Year.  We 
went  to  St.  Ann's  last  night  to  hear  Sarasate.  We 
put  up  at  Chuff ey's.  You  remember  Chuffey,  moth- 
er's maid?  She  has  a  fancy-shop  close  by  the  Assembly 
Rooms. ' ' 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

A   CONFESSION 

ALL  the  darkness  vanished  in  a  flash,  and  the  world 
was  flooded  with  light  again.  He  could  have  sobbed  like 
a  child  in  the  joy  of  his  unburdened  heart.  All  was  so 
simply  and  so  naturally  explained;  the  terrible  night- 
mare he  had  just  awakened  from  was  so  monstrous  and 
incredible. 

"Why  on  earth,"  he  said  gruffly,  "why  on  earth, 
Nan,  couldn't  you  leave  a  proper  message  with  the 
maids?  They  didn't  know  you  were  with  her." 

"I  will  do  so  next  time,  Dickie  dear,"  she  said. 
"What  is  wrong  with  your  arm?" 

' '  I  fell  off  a  bicycle  in  the  fog.  I  hope  your  precious 
Sarasate  fiddling  was  worth  the  jaunt." 

"Absolutely  worth  it.  But  unluckily  we  didn't  hear 
it — except  through  the  windows.  Evelyn  must  needs  set 
up  one  of  her  smashing  headaches  and  go  to  bed.  Hard 
luck,  considering  we  don't  often  go  off  on  a  lark 
together. ' ' 

' '  Poor  child ! "  he  said,  turning  to  Evelyn,  his  voice 
unsteady  with  tenderness.  "Pale,  so  pale,  too.  Some- 
thing ntust  be  done  for  these  headaches." 

"I  don't  see  why  slie  should  have  all  the  pity,"  Nancy 
said.  "She  can  go  pleasuring  when  she  likes.  But  my 
holidays  are  numbered.  I'm  off  by  the  next  train.  So 
good-by." 

"Good-by,  Nancy." 

Nancy  smiled  a  victorious  smile  when  she  walked 
away  in  the  sunshine.  "Heaven  help  them  now,"  she 
452 


A   CONFESSION  453 

thought,  "a  little  thing  would  undo  it  all.  She  isn't 
worth  him.  But  none  of  us  ever  are  worth  them — that  is, 
when  they  are  worth  anything." 

Then  she  remembered  that  it  was  Wednesday  and  that 
to-morrow  would  be  Thursday  and  that  more  than  half 
the  fifty  hours  were  over ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  her  learning 
and  the  customary  brevity  of  her  toilets,  began  to  con- 
sider which  of  her  gowns  would  befit  the  occasion.  He 
took  no  interest  in  frocks ;  but  she  was  sure  from  her  own 
feelings  that  he  was  amenable  to  the  subtle  influence 
that  frocks  exercise  over  all  rightly  constituted  male 
minds.  Had  he  felt  the  slowness  of  the  lagging  hours? 
Was  he  counting  the  remainder  of  them?  Perhaps  he 
was  absorbed  in  abstruse  mathematical  problems,  or  try- 
ing to  lose  his  anxiety  in  the  mazes  of  metaphysics  and 
the  subtleties  of  philosophy. 

"Come,  Amos,  and  take  a  letter  to  the  vicarage  for 
me,"  she  called  to  a  flaxen-headed  Barton,  who  was 
trudging  along  to  the  station  with  a  parcel.  "Mind  you 
don 't  loiter  on  the  way.  What  standard  are  you  in,  and 
what  are  you  going  to  do  for  a  living  ?  Dunno  ?  Oh,  but 
you  must  contrive  to  know  somehow.  Why,  you  must 
be  thirteen.  Wait  outside  while  I  write  in  the  waiting- 
room." 

She  found  writing  things  in  a  hand-bag  and  scribbled 
off  to  Kathleen :  ' '  All  is  right  at  the  cottage.  Never  ask 
me  how  I  spent  the  rest  of  yesterday.  If  you  remember, 
I  left  the  vicarage  in  the  morning  for  the  station  on  my 
way  home.  Wlio  knows  but  I  went?  This  by  Amos 
Barton." 

After  all,  Nancy  reflected  on  her  way  home,  it  was  a 
negative  victory.  Evelyn,  disenchanted  and  revolted  by 
the  revelation  in  the  newspaper,  had  broken  with  Mus- 
grave  and  written  a  last  letter  to  him.  But  much  moral 
pressure  had  been  necessary  to  bring  her  home.  "Noth- 
ing but  duty,"  Nancy  had  told  her  with  kind  cruelty, 
"can  ever  bring  happiness.  No  wife  can  be  happy, 
except  in  her  home." 


454  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"Nothing  matters  now,"  Evelyn  sighed.  "There  is 
no  more  happiness  for  me  anywhere." 

"Try  duty  instead.  You'll  be  feeling  better  by  New 
Year's  Day  when  Dick  comes  home." 

Evelyn  could  scarcely  be  more  dejected  and  heart- 
broken, she  thought,  than  on  this  morning.  Yet  when 
they  walked  to  the  station  in  the  brisk  air  she  was  sur- 
prised to  find  herself  conscious  of  something  very  like 
relief.  A  man  long  threatened  with  blindness  might 
feel  such  relief  when  it  came,  she  thought.  This  feeling 
grew  with  every  mile  in  the  train;  familiar  landmarks, 
churches,  homesteads,  fields,  and  downs,  all  glimmering 
in  fleeting  hoar-frost  in  the  low  sunshine,  had  friendly 
and  welcoming  looks  for  her;  a  weight  was  lifted  from 
her  heart;  she  felt,  like  one  waking  from  a  bad  dream 
to  some  real  sorrow,  that  she  could  rest  a  little  now. 
The  cottage  seemed  like  some  sad  but  safe  haven  in 
which  she  might  be  still  and  recover  strength.  Nancy's 
affectionate  care  of  her,  and  all  her  censures  and  exhor- 
tations, were  healing;  she  rested  like  a  child  in  her 
friend's  robust  and  cheery  nature,  in  her  strong  will  and 
healthy  mind;  the  mere  sight  of  her  fresh  face,  clear 
eyes,  and  sunny  smile,  gave  her  comfort.  Yet  Richard 
and  Nancy  were  more  alike  than  most  brothers  and  sis- 
ters are. 

Youth  and  morning  stirred  in  her  blood,  when  they 
walked  quickly  over  the  ringing  roads  and  turned  in  at 
the  gate  she  had  so  nearly  closed  against  herself  for- 
ever. After  all,  however  dreary  the  cottage  might  be, 
it  was  home.  But  when  Richard  came  back,  how  would 
she  face  him? 

"0  Nan!"  she  sighed  when  they  went  in,  "if  you 
could  but  stay  with  me ! " 

Utter  amazement  at  the  unimagined  idea  of  Richard 
there  at  that  hour  at  first  erased  every  other  thought 
from  Evelyn's  mind  when  she  saw  him;  then  followed 
the  curious  sense  of  safety  his  presence  invariably  gave 
her,  while  the  unaccustomed  tenderness  and  unfeigned 


A   CONFESSION  455 

joy  of  his  welcome  stirred  the  strangest  medley  of  feel- 
ings in  her  heart.  She  scarcely  heard  what  the  cousins 
said  in  her  agitation,  but  she  remembered  the  photograph 
she  had  seen  in  the  locket,  and  thought  with  a  keen  but 
sweet  pang  of  the  little  grave  in  the  churchyard.  "When 
Nancy  was  gone,  and  Richard  turned  back  into  the 
room,  Evelyn  was  sitting  by  the  hearth  with  her  back  to 
the  window,  alternately  stroking  Fluff  on  her  knee,  and 
Eollo,  sitting  before  her,  his  muzzle  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair. 

' '  Is  the  headache  gone  1 "  he  asked  after  a  little  pause, 
during  which  she  did  not  look  up,  and  he  remembered 
how  but  a  few  hours  since  he  wished  to  have  her  there 
that  he  might  strike  her  dead. 

"Not  quite,"  she  said,  still  without  looking  up.  "It 
leaves  one  limp  and  stupid.  When  did  you  come  home, 
and  why?" 

"Yesterday,  by  the  four-o'clock  boat.  There  was  a 
fog.  We  didn't  get  in  till  half -past  five." 

"Half-past  five!"  she  echoed,  startled  into  sudden 
interest.  "At  St.  Ann's?" 

"Then,  like  a  fool,  I  must  needs  cycle  straight 
across  here  from  St.  Ann's,  and  was  twice  lost  in  the 
fog.  It  took  over  two  hours;  I  had  a  fall  and  came  in 
a  mass  of  mud,  and  wet  through — even  Rollo  hardly 
knew  me — to  find  a  dark,  empty  house  and  no  din- 
ner  " 

"How  terrible!" 

"Terrible?" — ignoring  the  sarcasm — "terrible  is  no 
word  for  it.  I  was  positively  frightened,  Evelyn.  It  is 
such  an  unheard-of  thing  for  you  to  pass  a  night  from 
home;  the  maids  seemed  to  have  no  idea  where  you 
were. ' ' 

"It  must  indeed  have  been  a  shock — to  find  part  of 
the  furniture  absent  without  leave.  Almost  as  bad  as 
if  the  dining-table  had  unexpectedly  vanished,  or  the 
hall-clock  incontinently  waltzed  away." 

"It  was  no  laughing  matter  for  me,  dear." 


456  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"You  must  have  wanted  your  dinner  badly  after 
the  foggy  ride,"  she  said,  going  to  the  window. 

"I  wanted — my  wife,"  he  replied  with  gravity. 

' '  But  why  on  earth  did  you  come  home  in  that  sudden 
way?"  she  asked,  leisurely  removing  her  hat  and  coat 
and  piling  them  neatly  on  a  chair  with  her  gloves  and 
muff.  "It  was  as  much  a  new  departure  for  you  as  my 
sudden  festiveness  was  for  me." 

' '  I  can  hardly  tell  you  why  I  came, ' '  he  said  slowly. 
"It  was  most  inconvenient,  very  urgent  business  had 
to  be  neglected.  But — I  was  anxious  about  you,  terribly 
anxious.  So  I  threw  up  everything  and  came — as  fast — 
as  fast  as  that  infernal  fog  allowed." 

The  door  opened  and  Rhoda  came  in  to  lay  the  cloth, 
with  a  welcoming  smile,  in  which  there  was  a  good  spice 
of  curiosity.  Evelyn  spoke  to  her,  and  then  went  into 
the  parlor,  where  a  fire  crackled  cheerily  and  sunbeams 
fell  through  a  little  window  and  lighted  the  shining  oak 
furniture. 

To  her  surprise,  even  terror — for  the  need  of  being 
alone  was  urgent  in  her  bewildered  mood — her  husband 
followed  her  and  stood  in  front  of  the  fire,  looking  down 
upon  her  with  that  in  his  large  and  deep-blue  eyes  she 
did  not  care  to  face. 

"I  was  very  anxious,"  he  repeated  in  the  same  earnest 
voice. 

She  looked  away  with  a  shiver.  Nancy  had  spoken 
of  the  village  gossip ;  a  cold  fear  clutched  her  heart  lest 
he  too  might  have  heard  it.  She  could  think  of  noth- 
ing to  say  either  to  the  purpose  or  from  it ;  she  felt  the 
disquieting  gaze  she  dared  not  meet  pierce  through 
and  through  her,  analyzing,  measuring,  and  sifting 
her;  she  heard  the  clock  tick,  the  firewood  crackle,  and 
her  own  pulses  beat  wildly.  Then  of  a  sudden  she 
found  herself  crying  helplessly,  her  hands  before  her 
face. 

' '  Come,  come, ' '  she  heard  in  a  voice  of  gentle  remon- 
strance, "what  is  there  to  cry  about?"  But  she  went 


A   CONFESSION  457 

on  crying  like  a  child,  with  audible  sobs,  pitiful  to  hear, 
her  slight  figure  shaking  and  bowed  over  her  hands. 

' '  You  poor  little  soul ! "  he  said,  his  heart  torn  by  the 
sight;  "how  can  you  be  so  silly?  Is  it  the  headache? 
What  is  it?  Come  now,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  heard  him  step  near,  she  felt  a  strong  arm  gather 
her  to  the  shelter  of  a  strong  breast,  and  went  on  crying. 

"I'm  tired,"  she  said  at  last,  slipping  from  the  shel- 
tering arm  and  rising.  He  rose,  too,  and  stood  facing 
her,  silent  and  pale,  while  she  dried  her  tears  and  tried  to 
be  calm. 

"More  than  tired,  Evelyn,"  he  said  presently  with 
sad  concern. 

' '  What  does  it  matter  ?  What  do  you  care — what  have 
you  ever  cared?"  she  returned  with  bitter  emphasis. 
"  I  'm  neither  a  bank,  nor  a  biscuit-bakery,  nor  a  philan- 
thropic public-house.  I'm  nothing  but  a  respectable 
piece  of  furniture,  more  ornamental  than  useful  per- 
haps, the  correct  thing  to  have  but'  not  indispen- 
sable." 

"Evelyn !  Come,  I  see  that  I'm  somehow  in  disgrace. 
What  have  I  done,  dearest?"  tenderly,  and  laying  a 
hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Nothing.  You  don't  care  enough  to  do  anything," 
she  panted,  edging  away  from  him. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  what  a  wild  charge!  Who  should 
care  if  not  I?  Not  care?  What  else  in  the  world  have 
I  to  care  for?" 

' '  Kathleen, ' '  she  muttered,  in  a  low,  fierce  voice, 
repulsing  the  offered  embrace. 

"Kathleen?  What?  Kathleen?  What  do  you 
mean?"  he  cried,  stepping  back  a  pace,  the  whole- 
hearted love  and  tenderness  dying  out  of  his  voice. 

"I  mean,"  she  said,  her  words  sharp  and  clear  with 
passion,  "I  mean  that  I  never  clearly  knew  that  you 
did  not  care  for  me,  and  never  had,  until  that  day  when 
you  told  me  yourself  that  you  still  loved  Kathleen  Mayne 
— more  than  any  other  woman  in  the  world." 


458  RICHARD   ROSNY 

' '  Good  Heavens !  You  must  be  mad, ' '  he  exclaimed, 
a  flame  of  fury  leaping  up  in  his  eyes. 

"Mad?  Oh,  likely  enough.  Yes.  Till  then  I  thought 
your  neglect  and  unkindness  only  meant  the  usual  cool- 
ing off  after  marriage,  intensified  by  your  taciturnity 
and  gloomy,  unsocial  ways.  I  still  hoped  to  win  you  in 
spite  of  your  heartlessness  about  the  baby.  But  from 
that  day  I  clearly  knew  my  fate;  and  it  drove  me  to 
despair.  It  made  me  reckless  and  hard  with  misery." 

' '  Take  care ! "  he  cried,  white  with  indignation.  ' '  It 
is  a  pity  to  say  things  like  that,  easy  to  say — not  easy  to 
forget." 

' '  Not  easy  to  say,  else  said  long  before.  .  .  You  asked 
me  just  now  why  I  cried?  Only  because  you  seemed — 
you  seemed — to  care  a  little — what  became  of  me,"  she 
sobbed. 

"This  is  awful.  You  can  not  realize  what  you  are 
saying,  Evelyn,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  the  fury  in  his 
face  yielding  to  horror  and  pain.  ' '  How  can  you  ?  You 
poor  child!  You  can  never  have  thought  those  terrible 
things  of  me,  never  have  kept  all  that  bitterness  locked 
up  in  your  heart  all  these  months.  How  could  you  live 
with  me  day  by  day — ah !  that  explains — how  could  you 
break  bread  with  me,  how  stay  under  my  roof,  with  these 
hideous  thoughts — to  me  insulting  thoughts — fermenting 
within  you?" 

' '  How  indeed  ? ' '  she  returned.  ' '  But  what  else  could 
I  do  ?  I  wanted  to  forget  in  serious  study.  I  asked  you 
to  let  me  go  through  a  course  of  classics.  You  wouldn't 
even  listen,  only  laughed  and  left  me  alone  to  fester  in 
my  misery." 

"Evelyn!     Evelyn!" 

"You  never  had  the  slightest  sympathy  with  me, 
never  thought  me  worth  while.  The  day  you  brought  me 
home  to  this  house  you  told  me  that  you  cared  more  for 
Gerald  than  any  one  else  in  the  world,  except  your 
mother. ' ' 

"You  poor  baby!     Why  then  did  I  marry  you?" 


A   CONFESSION  459 

"To  keep  the  accounts  and  mind  the  housekeeping, 
I  suppose.  You  said  that  married  happiness  depended 
entirely  on  that — that  day." 

' '  Then  we  ought  to  be  at  the  summit  of  bliss,  my  dear, 
for  you ' ve  been  A-l  at  both, ' '  he  replied,  his  voice  soften- 
ing with  pity  and  great  tears  in  his  eyes.  "Why  didn't 
you  trust  me,  Evelyn?  How  could  you  wrong  me  by 
supposing  me  capable  of  these  things  1  You  have  twisted 
my  sayings — hasty  and  fragmentary  sayings — out  of  all 
proportion,  and  brooded  upon  them  until  they  have  come 
to  mean  something  quite  opposite  to  my  thoughts. 
Heartless  about  our  child?  Do  I  ever  forget  him,  day 
or  night,  or  ever  cease  to  grieve  that  because  of  my  sins 
we  are  childless?  Putting  others  before  my  wife?  My 
wife !  Perhaps  it  is  my  fault  that  we  have  so  grievously 
misunderstood  each  other.  I  did  not  think  you  capable 
of  imputing  all  this  to  me.  I  may  be  too  reticent.  I  hate 
sentimentality;  it  never  seems  genuine;  I  can't  talk  of 
feelings.  Women  have  so  little  trust.  My  mother  calls 
me  hard.  And  yet —  Oh,  I  wish  you  had  complained 
long  ago.  I  thought  you  understood;  I  thought  you 
trusted  me,  as  I  trusted  you,  Evelyn,  as  I  trusted  you. ' ' 

"You  didn't  care;  you  couldn't  have  eared.  You 
had  no  time  for  home  things." 

"I  have  wronged  you,  dear  Evelyn,"  he  said  with 
growing  earnestness;  "I  have  greatly  wronged  you  by 
being  too  much  absorbed  in  things  in  which  you  had  no 
part.  But  I  always  hoped  it  was  only  for  a  time.  The 
necessity  for  so  much  business  has  passed;  I  was  going 
to  begin  this  year  very  differently.  I  had  decided  to  give 
up  the  cottage  and  keep  you  near  me  always.  You  know 
why  my  life  is — what  it  is.  But  I  ought  to  have  given 
you  a  brighter  and  happier  life.  I  mean  to  try.  You 
never  should  have  been  left  as  you  have  been — I  see  that 
now,  too  late,  perhaps.  That  is  one  reason  why  I  came 
home  yesterday." 

"One  reason?"  she  returned  quickly.  "And  the 
other?" 


460  RICHARD    ROSNY 

"How  say  it?  Evelyn,  my  neglect  was  a  grave 
wrong  to  you.  You — you  were  exposed  to — to  talk.  To 
more  than  talk — to  temptation,"  he  added  in  a  shaken 
voice. 

She  shrank  from  the  deeply  moved  gaze — an  un- 
speakable fear  suddenly  burned  into  her — and  turned 
away,  going  to  the  same  chrysanthemums  over  which 
she  had  bent  two  nights  before.  His  shaken  voice  went 
through  her  with  knife-like  pain. 

"Talk,"  she  faltered  presently,  "of  course  there 
would  be  talk.  I  tried  to  make  you  see.  I  told  you  I 
could  not  receive  people  in  your  absence." 

"Ah!  I  was  blind,  culpably  blind,"  he  gasped. 

"I  tried  to  tell  you  from  the  first,  but  you  wouldn't 
listen, ' '  she  added  trembling,  ' '  and  I  thought  you  didn  't 
care  what  became  of  me.  You  threw  us  together — of 
course  he  saw,"  she  sobbed,  "that  I  was  neglected." 

"No,  no,"  he  cried,  "not  that!    No,  Evelyn." 

"He  tried  to  amuse  and  cheer  me" — another  sob — 
"we  used  to  talk  of  you.  He  was  pleasant  and  amusing 
and  I  was  so — so  unhappy." 

' '  Evelyn,  don 't  kill  me !  Or  kill  me  in  reality, ' '  he 
groaned. 

"So  utterly  lonely,"  she  sobbed,  her  face  hidden  on 
the  arm  she  had  laid  on  the  piano;  "but — but,  I  never 
thought — I  had  no  fear — he  was  your  closest  friend." 

"The  worst,  the  worst ;  tell  me  the  worst /"  he  shouted, 
losing  self-control.  "Stop  the  torture,  I  say!" 

She  raised  her  wet,  white  face  with  a  look  of  such 
terror  as  pierced  him  with  grief  and  shame. 

"The  blame  is  mine,"  he  gasped,  "whatever  it  may 
be.  Don 't  be  frightened,  dear.  Not — not  dishonor.  Oh, 
not  that!" 

"No ;  not  dishonor,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  terrified  voice, 
' '  except — except — in  thought. ' ' 

"The  scoundrel!     The  thrice  accursed " 

"Oh,  Richard,  Richard!" 

"He — he  made  you — love  him?"  he  cried,  the  words 


A   CONFESSION  461 

forced  from  him  with  an  inarticulate  groan.  "Tell  me 
the  truth,  you — you — as  you  value  your  life.  Do — you — 
love — that  man?" 

She  sank  down  in  a  heap  in  her  terror,  falling 
against  the  sofa  and  propped  by  it,  shaking,  wild-eyed, 
scarcely  able  to  breathe.  "Tell  me,"  he  thundered, 
"tell  me  the  truth." 

"No,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  with  a  great  gasp. 
"No — not  now,"  she  added  faintly. 

"But  you  did?"  he  urged  harshly. 

' '  It  was  so  dreadful, ' '  she  moaned, ' '  so  lonely.  There 
was  no  one  to  care  for  me  in  the  whole  wide  world — 
he " 

"Ah!  he  told  you  that;  he  beguiled  you  with  that 
bait.  Don't  crouch  there;  I  can't  bear  to  see  it.  Stand 
up,  Evelyn.  Come,  sit  here.  Aye,  you  were  tempted, 
poor  child!  Ah!  why  didn't  you  trust?" 

"It — it  was  so  pleasant,"  she  sobbed,  meekly  rising 
and  sitting  on  the  sofa  under  the  swords,  "to  talk  to  one 
who  was  interested,  who  treated  me  like  an  equal,  like 
a  reasonable  being " 

' '  Oh,  drive  it  home !     Stab !  stab ! ' ' 

"But  I  never  dreamed  that  he  would  care  for  me — 
in  that  way.  It  was  like  having  a  brother " 

"Poor  child,  poor,  dear  child." 

"And  he — he  thought  so,  too.    He  meant  no  harm." 

"The  soul  of  honor,  always  the  soul  of  honor." 

"Then  on  that  night  last  August,  when — when  we 
danced  the  minuet,  you  remember?  The  Maynes  and 
Nancy  and  the  professor  were  here.  Annis  was  playing 
the  Moonlight  sonata,  and  I  looked  up  and  he  looked 
up;  and  all  at  once  I  understood — and  he  understood. 
And  he  went  away  at  once  without  speaking  or  even 
saying  good-by.  I  never  thought  to  see  him  again.  He 
never  meant  to  see  me  again." 

' '  Always  the  soul  of  honor.    But  he  did  see  you.    Go 
on,  tell  me  all.     He  did  speak,  Evelyn;  out  with  it. 
Cleanse  your  soul  of  the  damned  stuff.    Cleanse  it." 
80 


462  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"It  is  all  over  now,  Richard.  I  shall  never  see  him 
again.  Is  not  that  enough?"  she  pleaded. 

"No.  You  have  been  seen  together.  You  have  been 
the  talk  of  the  place.  You  have  played  fast  and  loose 
Avith  our  honor,  have  given  our  name  to  the  winds.  I 
must  know  and  face  the  worst." 

"O  Richard!  you  are  hard;  you  have  no  pity." 

"  It  is  no  time  for  pity — not  till — the  thing  is  done — 
the  cancer  cut  out.  Then  the  knife  stays.  Not  before. ' ' 

"The  worst  was  on  one  miserable  wet  afternoon  in 
December,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  terrified  voice.  "I  had 
been  alone  all  day.  You  were  not  coming  home  that 
night — 0  Richard !  how  I  used  to  cling  to  you  and  feel 
safe  in  those  days !  If  you  had  shown  me  ever  so  little 
tenderness,  then  I  should  never,  never " 

"Turn  the  knife  in  the  wound — turn  it,  turn  it!" 

' '  I  can 't  tell  you  how  wild  I  was  to  be  loved  on  that 
dreary  day,  Richard,  and  how  lonesome.  I  thought  how 
nobody  had  ever  cared  for  me  all  my  life  long — till  that 
night  when  Nancy  played  the  sonata — and  never  would. 
And  then — then  the  door  opened  silently  in  the  dusk; 
it  was  like  a  dream" — a  long  pause — "and  we  were 
taken  by  surprise,  and  I,  before  I  knew,  had  spoken  his 
name,  and  he  had  taken  me  in  his  arms  and — kissed  me. 
That  was  the  worst,  the  very  worst." 

Richard  had  seated  himself  before  her,  bowed  for- 
ward and  nearly  double,  his  head  held  low  in  his  hands, 
while  she  spoke.  So  he  remained,  saying  nothing  for 
some  seconds.  "But  you  saw  him  again  and  alone," 
lie  added  presently,  "you  discussed  feelings  with  him. 
Did  he  never  ask  you  to — to — leave  me?" 

"Yes,"  in  a  faint  voice;  "he  said  that  I  belonged  to 
him  after  that  meeting.  That  fate  was  too  strong  for  us. 
That  you  would  not  care.  He  was  so  unhappy.  He  had 
his  rights.  His  love  was  so  great." 

' '  And  you  listened.  That  was  worse,  far  worse.  That 
was  no  surprise,  but  deliberate  dallying  with  tempta- 
tion. But  who  am  I,  to  censure  you  ?  You  sinned  deeply 


A   CONFESSION  463 

— yet  your  soul  is  white  by  mine.  And,  if  you  re- 
pent  " 

"I  do  repent.  Oh,  I  have  been  weak  and  wicked 
enough;  but  I  am  truly  sorry." 

' '  That  you  could  be  so  false,  Evelyn,  could  play  such 
a  part  to  me  on  your  own  hearth — that  you  could  tell 
me  he  must  not  come  in  my  absence,  while  you  were 
actually  secretly  receiving  him " 

"No,  not  in  this  house — never!  If  I  saw  him  alone 
it  was  out-of-doors — out  walking.  Oh,  I  am  sorry  and 
ashamed  beyond  words.  Will  you  never  forgive  me, 
Richard?  It  is  all  over  now  and  forever." 

"I  forgive  you — freely.  But  I  can  not  excuse  you, 
tempted  though  you  were.  And  I  can  never  forgive  my- 
self my  folly  and  blindness  and  seeming  neglect.  But, 
oh!  I  thought  you — thought  you — made  of  finer  stuff. 
And  I  trusted  that  other.  And  I  thought,  I  did  think, 
that  you — loved  me." 

"But  you  threw  my  love  away,"  she  faltered.  "And 
I  never  really  loved — him.  I  was  only  grateful  to  be 
loved,  grateful  for  the  love  he  professed.  It  was  like  an 
enchantment,  a  fairy  spell — all  broken  now,  all  faded 
and  gone." 

"That  you — you — could  think  such  a  wrong — you, 
Evelyn,  the  boy's  mother!" 

"We  will  leave  this,"  he  said  presently,  rising  and 
going  to  the  window,  whence  he  looked  sadly  out,  "and 
begin  again  fresh.  Try  to  trust  me ;  think  of  all  I  prom- 
ised in  the  sight  of  God  and  man  the  day  we  took  each 
other  for  better  and  for  worse.  I  have  never — by  the 
briefest  thought — gone  from  that.  I  never  shall.  But 
I  can  not  change  my  nature." 

"Nor  I  mine,"  she  added.  "You  are  very  good  to 
forgive  me.  And  I  will  try — to  do  better." 

He  turned  and  looked  in  his  direct  and  uncompro- 
mising way  straight  into  her  melancholy  eyes,  question- 
ing, fearing,  pitying,  wondering,  disappointed,  and  self- 
condemning.  Her  eyes  fell,  her  lip  quivered ;  great  seas 


464  RICHARD    ROSNY 

of  strangeness  seemed  to  roll  between  them,  gulfs  that 
could  never  be  bridged.  Yet  everything  within  her  set 
toward  him  across  all  those  waves  and  gulfs;  there  was 
her  safety  and  only  chance  of  happiness,  she  knew. 

''Let  us  trust  one  another,"  he  said  presently,  lift- 
ing the  drooping  flower- face  in  his  hands,  ' '  and  be  quite 
open  and  true  henceforth." 

A  kiss  was  exchanged,  silently,  sadly,  without  pleas- 
ure ;  yet  each  felt  it  a  sacrament  of  deep  meaning.  Rich- 
ard still  held  the  white  and  wistful  face,  saddened  but  in 
no  way  marred  by  tears,  in  his  hands,  as  though  it  were 
a  book  he  was  reading  in  some  little  known  language, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Rhoda  came  in  with  a  letter 
on  a  tray. 

"The  man  is  waiting  for  the  answer,  sir;  he  rode 
over  from  Ingrestone  on  Mr.  Belton's  horse." 

He  read  it  quickly,  with  a  face  on  which  Evelyn  saw 
sudden  pain  and  perplexity. 

"I  will  go  to  the  Pines  by  the  three  o'clock  train," 
he  told  the  maid,  after  a  brief  pause.  "That  is  the 
answer. ' ' 

Then  he  turned  to  Evelyn  as  if  for  help,  with  a  look 
that  almost  bridged  the  great  gulf  between  them.  "What 
can  I  do?"  he  asked,  handing  her  the  note. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

EICHAED     AND     GERALD 

EVELYN  read  the  letter  with  a  bewildered  and  pre- 
occupied mind.  "Dear  Dick,"  it  ran,  "what  on  earth  is 
keeping  you?  I  waited  till  all  hours  last  night  and 
expected  you  all  this  morning  till  I  had  your  wire.  My 
leave  is  running  out,  and  if  you  can  not  come  to-day  I 
must  act  without  you.  /  have  found  the  man.  Evidence 
justifies  a  warrant  to  arrest  him  at  once.  Bearer  waits 
for  reply.  Ever  yours,  Gerald." 

"What  man?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"The  wrong  man,"  he  replied.  "I  must  go  at  once, 
if  you  don't  mind  being  left." 

"But  mightn't  I  go  too?"  she  asked,  to  his  great 
relief. 

"We  must  keep  together  now  as  much  as  we  can," 
he  said  in  a  saddened  voice,  gladly  assenting. 

So  after  one  of  such  silent  and  ghastly  meals  as  peo- 
ple choke  over  when  there  is  death  or  sudden  disaster  in 
a  house,  Evelyn  found  herself,  in  accordance  with  the 
essential  irony  of  things,  at  Wimbury  station  just  twenty- 
four  hours  subsequent  to  her  attempted  flight  thence 
with  Ronald  Musgrave,  very  tranquilly  and  thankfully 
running  away  from  home  with  her  own  husband.  Only 
twenty-four  hours,  yet  it  seemed  years  and  years — 
years  which  had  devoured  her  youth,  fed  her  with  bitter 
fruit  of  experience,  and  chastened  her  folly  and  self-love 
with  the  long  discipline  of  suffering  and  remorse. 

Did  that  great,  grim,  sad-eyed  man  by  her  side  really 
love  her,  after  all  ?  she  wondered,  as  the  carriage  slipped 

465 


466  RICHARD    ROSNY 

over  the  rails  between  the  well-known  fields,  and  she 
rested  as  it  were  secure  in  the  shadow  of  his  great 
strength.  There  was  a  comfort  in  only  being  near  him. 
He  represented  duty  and  the  peace  that  comes  of  duty ; 
and,  whether  he  really  cared  for  her  or  not,  she  knew 
that  she  counted  for  something  in  his  life — she  at  least 
had  power  to  hurt  him. 

' '  Yes ;  let  us  always  keep  together  now, ' '  he  had  said 
in  his  deep  voice  when  she  proposed  going  to  Ingre- 
stone  with  him.  She  thought  that  he  seemed  glad  to  have 
her,  but  not  elated.  She  did  not  yet  realize  the  extent 
of  her  sin  against  him;  neither  his  humiliation,  nor  the 
bitterness  of  his  betrayed  trust,  nor  his  instinctive  mas- 
culine repugnance  to  forgive  what  the  one-sided  male 
view  of  honor  has  for  so  many  ages  held  unpardonable 
in  women,  were  in  the  compass  of  her  thoughts ;  she  was 
still  wholly  preoccupied  with  the  bitterness  of  her  mar- 
ried solitude  and  long  unhappiness,  though  Mabel  Wes- 
ton's  drowned  face  kept  rising  before  her  and  the  chil- 
dren's crying  rang  in  her  ears.  Blinded  by  the  egoism 
of  suffering,  deafened  by  the  tumult  of  her  misery  and 
ineffectual  struggle,  she  held  Richard  to  blame  for  all. 

And  Richard,  sitting  so  near  her  and  looking  with 
unseeing  eyes  upon  the  same  familiar  fields  and  hills, 
was  even  blinder  and  deafer  and  more  self-absorbed  than 
she ;  not  so  much  from  the  fiery  pain  through  which  he 
was  passing  as  from  the  immediate  necessity  of  action 
in  difficult  circumstances ;  he  was  far  too  deeply  absorbed 
to  observe  Evelyn's  want  of  interest  in  what  had  called 
him  so  suddenly  and  imperatively  to  the  Pines — not  only 
absorbed,  but  utterly  sick  at  heart  and  overcome.  Even 
the  stranger  sitting  opposite  them  in  the  train  observed 
that  heart-sick,  doomed  look  upon  his  face. 

The  pine-trees  were  singing  of  pleasant  things  in  the 
golden  sunbeams  that  glowed  on  their  feathery  tops  and 
red  stems,  as  if  all  the  gay  coming  and  going  of  happy 
young  people  beneath  them  were  recorded  in  their  soft 
and  dreamy  song.  The  gates  stood  open  in  sign  that 


RICHARD   AND   GERALD        467 

Edith  had  driven  out;  shouts  and  laughter  came  from 
the  near  meadow,  where  boys  and  girls  were  playing 
hockey;  the  tremulous,  long-drawn  wail  of  a  violin  and 
the  crisp  ripple  of  a  piano  sounded  from  the  drawing- 
rooms,  where  the  Dresden  china  decorations  had  given 
place  to  brocaded  satin  hangings  of  cream  and  pale  blue. 
The  brightness  and  gay  animation  of  the  house  struck 
Evelyn  as  in  sharp  contrast  with  her  own  feelings,  and 
roused  her  to  wonder  what  possible  trouble  or  perplexity 
could  be  in  that  cheerful  household  to  call  Richard  post- 
haste from  his  own  domestic  complications  to  the  rescue. 
Gerald  came  himself  and  received  them  in  the  hall,  visi- 
bly startled  to  see  Evelyn,  and  so  much  unlike  himself 
that  she  could  not  but  observe  it. 

"Delightful  of  you  to  come,"  he  said;  "mother  will 
be  in  soon.  That's  Molly  you  hear  fiddling  for  all  she's 
worth,  rehearsing  for  a  concert.  The  billiard-room  floor 
is  being  beeswaxed  for  a  dance.  But  here's  the  morn- 
ing-room quite  at  your  service,  if  you  will  come  in  and 
don't  mind  being  alone.  Adeline  and  Chesney  are  out 
riding,  Harry's  golfing,  the  children  are  at  hockey. 
They'll  all  drop  in  for  tea,  Evelyn.  But  I'm  going  to 
monopolize  Dick  now,  I'm  afraid." 

"I  can  wait  here  very  comfortably  alone,"  she  said. 
"I've  not  seen  the  new  decorations,  or  the  Bartolozzis. 
You  can  get  through  tons  of  business  while  I  look  round 
at  all  the  pretty  things." 

"You  forget  that  Evelyn  is  at  home  here,"  Richard 
added.  "She's  tired  and  will  like  to  be  quiet  for  a 
little." 

The  morning-room  was  the  old  study  in  which  poor 
Belton  had  slept  so  many  opium  sleeps,  and  dreamed 
and  drowsed  so  many  squalid  hours  away.  His  portrait 
in  oils  was  on  the  wall,  and  some  of  his  sumptuously- 
bound  and  long-forgotten  publications  were  on  the 
shelves;  else  there  was  nothing  to  recall  him  and  the 
dreary  hours  his  children  and  wife  had  passed  there. 
A  bay-window  had  been  thrown  out  in  the  front,  a  door 


468  RICHARD   ROSNY 

by  the  fireplace  stood  open  into  a  conservatory  that 
caught  the  last  sunbeams  and  was  visible  over  the  man- 
telpiece through  a  glass  partition  flush  with  the  shelf. 
The  room  was  painted  in  shades  of  salmon-pink  and 
cream,  and  covered  with  engravings,  etchings,  blue 
china,  and  bronzes ;  the  linen  curtains  and  hangings  were 
beautifully  hand-embroidered,  the  furniture  was  Louis 
XVI,  delicately  inlaid  and  daintily  upholstered;  but  in 
mercy  to  a  frailer  and  more  fatigued  generation,  there 
were  some  deep  and  downy  lounges  of  the  present  day 
as  well.  An  open  cottage  piano,  an  easel  with  an  unfin- 
ished water-color,  boxes  of  cigarettes  and  sweets,  needle- 
work in  various  stages,  and  a  sprinkling  of  fashion  and 
gossip  papers,  among  novels  and  framed  photographs, 
gave  token  of  feminine  occupation. 

Leaving  the  spider-legged  chairs  and  sofas,  Evelyn 
sank  into  the  warm  depths  of  a  Chesterfield  by  the  fire, 
and  drew  out  a  screen  to  protect  her  aching  eyes,  and 
then,  hoping  nobody  would  come  in  for  the  next  hour 
at  least,  rested,  while  the  sun  dipped,  the  sky  flushed 
deeper,  firelight  played  on  the  palms  and  mimosas  and 
many-hued  flowers  in  the  conservatory,  and  voices  of 
hockey-players  came  cheerily  through  the  still  air,  and 
opening  doors  let  strains  of  music  swell  out  and  fall 
again. 

When  he  left  her,  Richard  turned  with  a  look  she 
could  neither  understand  nor  forget — a  look  of  appeal 
and  pity  and  tenderness  and  unspeakable  pain,  mingled 
with  a  something  beyond  them  all  that  penetrated  and 
moved  her  deeply.  Her  emotions  were  exhausted  to  a 
sort  of  stony  weariness ;  just  to  be  still  and  sleep  seemed 
the  only  tolerable  thing  now.  But  that  look  stirred  her 
weary  apathy  and  pursued  her  with  perplexed  ques- 
tioning that  kept  her  waking  when  her  tired  eyes  closed 
and  her  limbs  relaxed  in  the  warmth  and  downy  luxury. 
For  Richard  had  always  dominated  her  thoughts;  even 
when  that  other  crushed  poetic  passion  was  at  fullest 
fervor,  the  idea  of  her  husband  was  continually  in  the 


RICHARD   AND   GERALD       469 

background.  He  was  a  complete  antithesis  to  Ronald, 
whose  fervor  and  tenderness  contrasted  sharply  with 
Richard's  coldness  and  carelessness;  while  their  mutual 
companionship  and  intellectual  converse  emphasized  the 
silence  and  constraint  that  Richard  seemed  to  have  erect- 
ed as  a  barrier  between  them.  Though  she  had  been  so 
hungry  for  love,  none  but  her  husband's  could  ever  sat- 
isfy her. 

All  this  became  clear  to  her  while  she  watched  the 
day  glorious  dying  from  the  clear  sky  and  feathery  pine- 
tops,  and  saw  field  and  wood  and  hill  fade  to  a  solemn 
vagueness.  Soon  a  large,  liquid  star  trembled  into  the 
pink  and  orange  translucence,  and  silvery  points  began  to 
pierce  the  pale  blue  above  it.  The  solemn  pageant  of  the 
day's  passing  rebuked  her,  its  tenderness  pierced  her 
aching  heart;  from  relief  at  having  gone  through  the 
worst  with  Richard  and  laid  all  bare  before  him — all 
except  the  trifling  circumstance  of  her  having  actually 
left  home  with  the  intention  of  going  to  Ronald ;  that,  not 
having  been  carried  out,  seemed  as  if  it  had  never  been — 
she  passed  to  shame  and  remorse  for  what  she  had  felt 
and  thought  during  the  last  few  months.  In  sight  of  the 
pure  clarity  of  the  changing  sunset  sky,  always  so  im- 
pressive and  uplifting  to  see,  she  felt  how  greatly  she 
had  been  forgiven,  and  tears  of  love  and  gratitude  rose 
to  her  eyes.  She  wondered  how  she  had  dared  tell  him, 
still  more  how  he  had  forborne  his  just  anger.  But  he 
had  forborne  it;  he  had  forgiven  her  a  wrong  that 
dwarfed  all  his  sins  against  her  by  comparison,  and  she 
was  thankful  and  humbled. 

Gerald  in  the  meantime  had  taken  Richard  to  the 
dining-room,  where  the  peacock  decorations  had  all  been 
renewed,  and  where  abundance  of  cut-flowers  made  the 
air  fragrant  to  faintness. 

"The  smoking-room  is  snugger,  but  too  public,"  he 
said.  "Nobody  comes  here  at  this  time  of  day.  I  want 
to  get  the  warrant  at  once,  Dick.  My  man  is  at  Shackle- 
ton  now,  and  he  may  be  off  at  any  moment." 


470  RICHARD   ROSNY 

' '  Ah ! ' '  said  Richard,  leaning  up  against  the  chimney 
and  looking  down  at  a  writing-table  covered  with  papers 
in  a  window,  and  thence  out  at  the  pine-tops  glowing  in 
the  dying  sun.  "Your  man.  Well?" 

' '  You  do  put  a  chap  off  with  that  short  way  of  yours, 
Dick.  Isn't  that  arm  right  yet?" 

"Wrenched  it  again  last  night,"  he  said,  holding  it 
with  his  right  hand,  "and  you  hauled  me  along  pretty 
stiffly  just  now." 

"What  a  brute  I  was!  I  say,  I  wonder  how  many 
that  arm  kept  back  from  Kingdom  Come  Sunday  week? 
But  you  are  not  curious  about  my  great  find  ?  You  are 
thinking  of  something  else." 

"I  have  much  to  think  of,  but  I  am  giving  my  full 
attention,"  was  the  grave  reply. 

"Oh,  these  pious  pubs  and  all  the  blessed  bothera- 
tions !  You  are  a  queer  chap,  Dick, ' '  Gerald  said,  walk- 
ing restlessly  up  and  down.  "It's  like  making  a  clean 
breast  of  it  to  a  charity  dinner,  or  asking  advice  of  the 
poor's-box,  or  confiding  in  a  Board  of  Guardians." 

"Get  on  with  the  story,  Gerald;  never  mind  the 
metaphors. ' ' 

"His  name  is  Amos  Clarke,"  Gerald  said.  "He  is  a 
well-known  bookmaker. ' ' 

"Yes?" 

Richard's  large  presence  seemed  to  dominate  and  fill 
the  room;  his  great  frame,  stayed  lightly  against  the 
carved  overmantel,  gave  an  impression  of  enormous 
reserve  strength.  Gerald  felt  smaller  and  slighter  than 
ever  by  the  side  of  the  brother  he  so  much  resembled 
in  color  and  feature;  he  admired  Richard's  darker  com- 
plexion and  massive  face,  now  so  stern  and  weary  in  its 
strength  and  squareness,  and  wondered  what  set  of 
mouth  the  dark,  close  beard  concealed.  Some  silver 
lines  in  the  thick  hair  waved  crisply  over  his  broad  and 
powerful  forehead,  and  a  somber  fire  glowing  in  his 
blue-black  eyes  increased  the  attractiveness  of  the  face 
to  Gerald,  who  had  long  since  outgrown  a  boyish  distaste 


RICHARD   AND   GERALD        471 

for  his  elder  brother's  society,  and  returned  to  the  old 
worship  of  childhood.  But  to-day  Gerald  saw  a  sadness 
so  profound,  a  look  so  heart-sick,  as  he  had  never  seen  on 
any  face,  and  which,  to  use  his  own  expression,  put  him 
off.  There  was  a  silence  and  capacity  for  endurance  in 
this  look  that  rebuked  his  own  feverish  and  fitful  agita- 
tion, and  made  him  half  ashamed  of  the  exaggeration 
with  which  he  had  so  long  been  pursuing  an  end  half 
fanciful  and  half  dutiful. 

' '  Oh,  you  think  me  a  morbid  ass  for  running  the  fel- 
low to  earth,"  he  cried  pettishly.  "But  the  murdered 
man  was  my  own  father  and  I  am  his  eldest  son.  Did 
you  know  this  Amos  Clarke  and  his  dealings  with  my 
father?" 

"I  knew  that  your  father  knew  the  man.  He  was 
often  here.  What  of  that?  There  was  nothing  against 
Clarke, ' '  Richard  replied,  turning  his  sad  face  and  som- 
ber glance  upon  Gerald's  mobile  and  excited  face. 

"But  I  can  prove  that  he  was  here  on  that  night." 

"Yes?"  Richard  said,  with  a  jaded  sigh. 

' '  He  was  the  last  man  who  saw  my  poor  father  alive. 
Do  you  remember  that  night,  Richard,  the  night  of  Ade- 
line's  birthday,  and  of  the  fancy-dress  ball?" 

"Perfectly." 

"After  dinner  my  poor  father  went  out  and  walked  up 
and  down  under  the  pines,  as  he  so  often  did.  You  went 
off  on  your  bicycle  to  dress  for  the  ball.  Adeline,  Archie, 
Molly,  and  I  ran  through  the  kitchen  garden  the  short 
way  to  the  Musgraves,  who  dined  an  hour  or  two  later, 
in  costume.  How  well  I  remember  it !  You  were  en- 
gaged to  Kitty  Musgrave  at  that  time;  she  was  in  some 
medieval  dress  of  white  and  gold.  Ronald  Musgrave 
was  a  Black  Brunswicker.  We  children — Nancy  Rosny 
was  staying  there — played  about  the  hall  till  they  came 
out  from  dinner ;  Molly  roared  with  fright  at  Musgrave 's 
Death's  Head  and  Bones;  we  thought  Kitty  looked  like 
an  angel;  she  did  nothing  but  look  out  of  the  window, 
for  you  were  late,  I  suppose.  I  had  been  in  love  with 


472  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Nancy  since  I  was  a  little  chap.  We  were  all  as  jolly  as 
could  be,  till  I  heard  the  clock  strike  half-past  nine. 
You  won't  believe  it,  Dick,  but  my  blood  seemed  to  turn 
and  go  backward  through  me  when  I  heard  that  clock 
strike,  and  I  went  cold  all  over.  No  wonder.  At  that 
moment  my  poor  father  was  being  murdered." 

Richard  laid  his  strong,  steady  right  hand  caress- 
ingly on  Gerald's  heaving  shoulder.  "Come,  come," 
he  said,  "why  torture  yourself  by  all  this?" 

' '  And  that  very  afternoon  I  had  wished  he  was  dead. 
And  you  said — said — he  might  die  that  very  night.  And 
Tie  did,"  Gerald  panted. 

' '  Come  now, ' '  said  Richard,  whose  face  was  gray  and 
strained;  "what  is  a  child's  pettish  word,  and  long 
since  recalled  and  forgiven.  And  you  didn't  mean  it 
after  all." 

' '  I  did, ' '  he  muttered.  ' '  I  did  mean  it ;  I  hated  him 
for  mother's  sake.  I  would  have  struck  him  down  dead 
if  I  could." 

"No,  no;  you  repented  it  as  soon  as  said.  This  is 
morbid,  Gerald.  Get  on  with  your  story.  There's 
mother  coming  home.  Don't  let  her  hear  of  this." 

Gerald,  sunk  in  a  chair  by  the  writing-table  in  the 
window,  had  dropped  his  face  between  his  hands,  with 
the  faint  radiance  of  the  afterglow  on  his  close-cropped 
head.  Richard,  backed  by  the  glowing  hearth,  threw  a 
giant  shadow  that  darkened  nearly  all  the  firelit  interior. 
When  Gerald  pulled  himself  together  and  looked  up  in 
his  face  it  was  lost  in  its  own  shadow,  while  his  figure 
towering  against  the  hearth-glow  seemed  gigantic. 

' '  Get  on, ' '  Richard  repeated  from  the  shadow.  ' '  How 
do  you  know  that  Clarke  was  there?" 

"The  cross,  the  place  where  he  was  found  the  next 
morning,"  Gerald  said,  "was  not  far  from  the  kitchen. 
One  of  the  maids  was  outside — fetching  wood  or  water 
— and  she  heard  voices,  men's  voices,  quarreling  under 
the  pines." 

"Ah!"    His  shoulders  had  been  stayed  against  the 


RICHARD   AND   GERALD        473 

mantel,  his  head  bent,  his  hands  in  his  pocket  and 
one  foot  drawn  up  behind  him  on  the  fender  in  an  atti- 
tude of  utter  dejection,  that  suddenly  changed  to  one  of 
alert  amazement.  He  straightened  himself  and  stood  up 
square  and  still  in  strong  relief  against  the  blaze.  ' '  She 
heard  men  quarreling?  Who  put  that  in  her  head?" 
he  asked. 

"This  Emma  married  a  baker,  named  Jacobs,  and 
lives  at  St.  Ann's,"  Gerald  continued.  "I  remember 
the  girl  well.  I  have  asked  her  to  tell  me  everything  she 
remembered  about  that  night." 

"How  much  did  you  suggest  to  her?" 

"Clarke  called  that  evening  after  dinner,  she  says. 
She  answered  the  door,  and  offered  to  go  and  fetch  the 
master,  who  was  walking  in  the  grounds.  Clarke  said 
he  would  find  him  himself,  he  had  found  him  there  be- 
fore. Soon  after  that,  she  went  to  the  wood-house  and 
heard  angry  voices." 

"And  words?" 

"Cursing  and  swearing,  and  two  voices  raised  high 
at  the  same  time." 

"Nothing  definite?  No  connected  sentence,  threat, 
accusation  ? ' ' 

"Vague  abuse.     She  detailed  phrases." 

"Why  was  she  silent  at  the  inquest?" 

"She  thought  it  more  respectful.  Besides,  violent 
language  was  too  usual  to  be  remarked." 

"Then  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  man?" 

"Not  at  first." 

"Not  till  you  put  it  into  her  head?" 

"Not  till  after  the  inquest,  when  they  came  to  talk 
it  over." 

"She  and  her  fellow-servant?" 

"And  all  their  acquaintances.  There  was  much  talk 
at  the  time.  I  overheard  some  such  talk  one  night  before 
the  funeral  at  Gatrell's  gate — Jaynes  and  Seth  Barton 
were  there  talking  with  Gatrell.  I  can't  well  recall  it; 
it  was  but  the  fag-end  I  heard  as  I  came  across  the  road 


474  RICHARD   ROSNY 

in  the  dusk.  But  I  have  the  distinct  memory  of  the 
question  of  foul  play  and  of  money  as  a  cause,  with  an 
insinuation  that  Gatrell  knew  more  than  he  cared 
to  tell." 

"Does  he?     Did  you  ask  him?" 

"You  might  as  well  ask  the  Sphinx.  I  never  knew 
such  a  stubborn  old  beggar.  A  charge  of  dynamite 
wouldn't  draw  a  straight  answer  from  Silas.  Round 
and  round  he  goes  like  a  corkscrew  staircase.  You  can't 
have  him  anywhere.  He's  like  an  eel.  Of  course  he 
could  throw  light  upon  it  if  he  chose." 

"Why  should  he  not  choose?  And  what  motive 
should  Clarke  have  had  against  poor  Mr.  Belton?" 

"My  father  probably  owed  him  money.  And  he  was 
in  one  of  his  most  irritable  moods  that  night.  I  suppose 
Clarke  asked  for  money  and  was  told  to  go  to  the  devil. 
Clarke  retorted,  and  from  words  they  came  to  blows." 

"That  would  be  homicide — with  extenuating  circum- 
stances, more  or  less,  according  to  the  jurors'  sympa- 
thies. And  all  upon  the  slight  evidence  of  Clarke  hav- 
ing been  known  to  call  that  night,  and  of  voices  having 
been  heard  by  Emma " 

"And  the  other  maid,  who  is  still  alive  and  remem- 
bers  " 

"And  after  all  these  years.  Is  it  worth  while  to 
rake  it  all  up,  Gerald?  And  for  what?" 

"For  justice  to  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  of  men. 
Other  evidence  would  come  out.  Gatrell  would  be  put 
under  the  examination  screw,  and  we  should  know  all. 
Oh!  this  thing  haunts  me,  Dick.  Night  and  day  I  get 
no  rest;  I  must  clear  it  up — I,  his  eldest  son,  and  no 
other.  He  seems  to  be  always  calling  upon  me  to  help 
him." 

"You  can  not  help  him,"  Richard  said,  looking  sadly 
into  Gerald's  pale  face  and  overbright  eyes.  "He  needs 
no  help.  He  is  at  rest,  we  trust.  We  know  nothing 
except  that  God  is  infinitely  merciful,  and  that  your 
poor  father  has  passed  from  the  power  of  temptation. 


RICHARD   AND    GERALD        475 

We  can  only  pray  for  his  soul,  and  we  know  that  prayer 
is  heard." 

"I  mean  to  help  him  in  this  life,  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, to  right  his  memory,  to  do  what  I  can,"  Gerald 
replied,  too  much  agitated  to  observe  his  brother's  deep 
emotion.  "What  he  must  have  suffered !  What  hopeless 
misery  of  body  and  mind  must  have  driven  him  to  those 
drugs  for  f orgetf ulness !  Fate  was  always  against  him. 
There  must  have  been  rascality  and  double-dealing  in 
that  banking  business,  else  how  could  he  have  been  so 
poor  while  they  were  rolling  in  riches  ?  He  was  a  part- 
ner, and  the  son  of  a  partner " 

"The  partnership  had  long  been  dissolved,  Gerald. 
His  share  was  spent  and  he  was  of  no  use  in  the  business. 
He  had  none  of  the  qualities  that  insure  success  in  busi- 
ness; his  talents  were  in  other  directions." 

"He  was  done  out  of  his  right  all  the  more  easily 
for  that.  Thorne  will  be  an  important  witness.  He 
said  at  the  time  that  the  blow  might  have  been  caused  by 
the  fall;  but  there  was  no  certainty.  I  wonder  if  he 
kept  notes  of  the  case  ?  Thorne,  the  two  maids,  Gatrell, 
and  myself — what  I  overheard  and  what  I  suspected. 
By  the  way,  didn't  you  suspect  anything,  Dick?" 

"Suspicion  is  not  evidence." 

"Do  you  remember  anything?  Things  you  hardly 
noticed  at  the  time  might  be  brought  out  in  the  witness- 
box,  don't  you  know.  Think  it  over.  Was  anything 
owing  to  Clarke  at  the  time  ? ' ' 

"Yes.  It  was  paid.  He  did  not  press  for  it. 
Mother  was  urgent  to  clear  off  debts  of  that  kind  first. 
Her  great  anxiety  was  to  avoid  publicity,  to  shield  his 
memory.  I  hope  you  will  not  worry  her  with  these 
things,  Gerald.  She  is  happy  now ;  time  has  dimmed  and 
softened  those  sad  memories." 

"I  have  said  nothing  to  her,  but  I  must.  She  must 
look  back  for  evidence.  Before  putting  it  into  lawyers' 
hands  I  thought  I  would  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  get 
any  facts  you  might  remember, ' '  Gerald  said,  in  a  calmer 


476  RICHARD   ROSNY 

and  more  collected  manner.  "I  shall  now  get  a  war- 
rant for  Clarke's  arrest  and  take  all  the  usual  legal 
steps.  I  must  see  this  thing  through  before  my  leave 
is  up,  if  I  can.  Then  I  shall,  of  course,  ask  for  an 
extension. ' ' 

"You  are  not  really  determined  to  do  this?"  Richard 
urged.  "Consider  what  it  means." 

"Perfectly  determined.  I  can't  sleep  for  it.  It's  a 
very  plain  and  simple  duty,  Dick." 

"You've  no  evidence,  Gerald.  But  supposing  that 
you  had  the  fullest,  and  succeeded  in  convicting  Clarke 
of  homicide,  consider  what  it  means.  Two  or  three  years ' 
imprisonment,  probably  less,  for  the  guilty  man — who 
has  perhaps  long  ago  repented  a  moment's  sudden  un- 
controllable violence — what  good  would  that  do  to  any 
human  being?  It  might  harm  many  innocent  people 
depending  on  him.  Would  it  bring  your  poor  father's 
life  back,  or  soften  our  mother's  grief  of  years  ago? 
While  your  father's  memory — "  Richard  paused,  start- 
led for  the  moment  by  a  sudden  blaze  of  light  leaping 
up  all  over  the  room,  which  had  become  quite  dark,  at 
the  pressure  of  Gerald's  finger  on  a  button  in  the  wall, 
and  Gerald  himself  felt  a  shock  at  the  suddenly  illu- 
minated face  of  his  brother,  which  was  drawn  and 
strange,  with  the  hair  roughened  back  from  the  forehead, 
where  the  old  scar  left  by  the  fire  showed  purple-red, 
and  on  which  some  marks  of  the  pebbles  dashed  upon 
it  by  the  storm  still  remained. 

"My  father's  memory!"  Gerald  cried.  "That  is  the 
chief  point  that  would  be  cleared." 

"Great  Heaven!  What  can  you  be  thinking  of? 
You  remember  all  that  sordid  wretchedness,  Gerald,  and 
yet  want  to  drag  it  out  into  the  light  again.  Can  you 
have  forgotten  that  miserable  day — the  tale  you  told  me 
that  afternoon  under  the  trees,  that  miserable  dinner, 
Adeline's  birthday  dinner?  The  poor  child  shut  up  all 
day  and  creeping  in,  scared  and  wretched,  at  dessert; 
the  marks  on  mother's  face  and  arms  that  she  tried  to 


RICHARD   AND   GERALD        477 

hide — can  you  forget  that?  or  his  condition,  and  the 
gloom,  the  silence,  the  terror  of  what  he  might  do  next, 
the  misery  of  those  poor,  frightened  children,  running 
wild,  ill-treated,  and  untaught,  you  yourself  barely 
allowed  to  hang  on  at  that  fifth-rate  school,  and  having 
the  home  wretchedness  cast  up  against  you  there,  or 
poor  mother's — poor,  poor  mother's  futile  attempts  to 
hide  things  and  put  a  good  face  upon  it  all  ?  By  Heaven ! 
you  can  forget  that  hunted,  tortured,  furtive  look  in 
her  bruised  face?  And  you  want  to  drag  out  from  the 
grave  the  memory  of  your  father's  long-forgotten  fail- 
ings and  faults.  And  all  for  what?" 

"For  justice  and  right,"  Gerald  replied,  rather  un- 
steadily, and  as  he  spoke  the  light  in  all  the  electric 
burners  sank,  and  after  a  few  wild  leaps  nickered  and 
went  out,  leaving  the  room  in  darkness  touched  by  a  gray 
pallor  from  the  windows  and  a  dull  glow  from  the 
hearth.  "Truth  never  does  harm.  He  has  been 
maligned;  he  will  be  avenged." 

"And  your  mother?  What  will  it  be  to  her  to  have 
all  this  dragged  into  the  light?" 

"It  will  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  her  to  have  it  all 
cleared  up,  Richard.  You  don't  know  what  she  has  suf- 
fered from  doubts  and  from  rumors  that  have  come  to 
her  from  time  to  time.  It  is  said  that  he  took  his  own 
life.  That  is  torment  to  her.  We  often  talk  it  over. 
But  I  have  told  her  nothing  of  Clarke  yet." 

"It  is  a  serious  thing  to  make  a  charge  against  an 
innocent  person,  especially  when  it  can  not  be  either 
proved  or  disproved.  You  may  not  find  him  guilty ;  but 
the  suspicion  will  cling  to  him,  and  always  be  against 
him." 

' '  This  will  be  proved, ' '  Gerald  replied,  with  the  stub- 
born conviction  of  a  monomanic. 

"Don't  do  this  thing,  Gerald,"  Richard  implored 
from  the  darkness  in  a  breaking  voice. 

"I  must;  my  father's  blood  cries  to  Heaven  against 
me  till  I  do." 

31 


478  RICHARD   ROSNY 

There  was  silence  for  some  seconds,  broken  now  by  a 
tinkle  of  distant  music,  now  by  a  burst  of  laughter  or 
the  sound  of  young  voices  in  the  hall.  Then  Richard 
spoke  again  from  the  shadows.  "Clarke  is  innocent," 
he  said.  "I  can  prove  it." 

"Prove  it,  then." 

Richard  drew  a  deep  sigh,  audible  to  Gerald  in  the 
darkness.  "Are  you  still  set  on  prosecuting?"  he  asked. 

"All  the  more.     If  you  can  prove  it,  he  can." 

"Clarke  was  not  the  last  man  who  saw  your  father 
alive,  Gerald.  A  third  man  was  under  the  trees  that 
night.  He  joined  Mr.  Belton  after  Clarke  left,"  Rich- 
ard said.  "Clarke  met  that  man  going  in  under  the 
pines. ' ' 

"By  George!  And  you  kept  it  secret  all  these 
years,"  cried  Gerald,  springing  to  his  feet.  "How  do 
you  know  it?  And  who  was  the  third  man?" 

"I  was  the  third  man,"  Richard  said,  in  a  fatigued 
and  sad  voice,  looking  straight  before  him  and  not  seem- 
ing to  observe  the  sudden  return  of  the  electric  light, 
that  brought  out  every  detail  in  the  room  and  showed  the 
marks  of  fire  and  storm  on  his  face,  "I!" 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE    FIKST     STONE 

X  Mrs.  Belton  came  home  from  her  drive  in  the 
crimsoning  dusk,  she  went  immediately  to  the  morning- 
room,  which  was  not  far  from  the  hall  door. 

"Tell  them  to  send  me  some  tea  here,"  she  said  to 
Molly,  who  was  in  the  hall.  "I'm  too  tired  to  see  any- 
body. Adeline  and  Rupert  are  coming  up  the  drive,  and 
Gerald  and  Harry  will  be  in  soon.  Let  me  be  alone  till 
dinner. ' ' 

So  going  in,  cold  in  spite  of  her  furs,  and  tired  out 
with  the  innumerable  nothings  of  the  day,  and  the  high 
spirits  and  incessant  activities  of  a  house  full  of  happy 
and  unrestrained  youth,  she  was  startled  to  see  Evelyn 's 
slight  figure  rising  in  the  warm  hearth-glow,  and 
straightway  forgot  her  fatigue  in  the  surprise  of  a  visit 
from  her  daughter-in-law,  to  confide  to  whom  a  multi- 
tude of  small  vexations  incidental  to  the  approaching 
wedding  was  an  exquisite  solace. 

"It  is  the  first  time  I  have  had  to  marry  a  daughter, 
and  I  shall  certainly  never  survive  a  second,"  she  com- 
plained, with  a  comfortable  pathos  that  set  Evelyn  won- 
dering if  serious  trouble  could  ever  have  crossed  that 
peaceful  and  pleasantly  ordered,  if  twice  widowed,  life. 
"We  rear  children  with  endless  trouble  and  no  thanks, 
Evelyn ;  and  as  soon  as  they  have  grown  to  a  companion- 
able age  and  might  make  us  some  return,  their  sole  thought 
is  to  fly  away  and  absorb  themselves  in  the  life  of  some 
total  stranger.  One  has  little  comfort,  and  perpetual 
care,  in  children.  You  are  spared  much,  my  sweet  Eve- 
lyn, in  having  none.  "What,  no  sugar,  dear?  Sugar  is 

479 


480  RICHARD   ROSNY 

another  of  the  pleasant  fashions  going  out  in  these  days. 
And  pray  why  did  you  keep  Richard  yesterday?  "What 
was  the  urgent  matter  that  called  him  home  on  the  one 
day  that  he  always  devotes  to  cheering  his  mother — the 
sad  anniversary  that  you  know  of?" 

"What,  indeed?"  Evelyn  thought,  flushing  hotly  in 
the  shadow,  but  certain  that  no  gossip  could  have  reached 
Mrs.  Belton's  ears  as  yet. 

' '  On  the  whole,  he  seems  to  be  an  attentive  son, ' '  she 
replied  evasively.  "Indeed,  mama,  I  am  often  jealous 
of  you,  I  must  confess.  And  if  you  scold  us  for  not 
coming  more  frequently  to  the  Pines,  you  might  remem- 
ber how  seldom  you  are  seen  at  the  cottage." 

"Ah!  that  is  another  cachet  of  these  latter  days: 
parents  are  to  be  dutiful,  not  children.  One  learns  to 
accept  things,"  she  added,  mournfully,  creaming  her 
well-sugared  tea  and  sipping  it  as  if  it  were  the  cup  of 
affliction  itself.  "A  mother  is  well  practised  in  patience, 
Evelyn ;  her  name  is  a  synonym  for  long-suffering.  You 
must  turn  over  a  new  leaf  with  the  new  year,  dear,  and 
come  oftener  to  comfort  my  loneliness." 

A  more  perfect  picture  of  placid  well-being  and 
daintily  sensuous  enjoyment  than  Edith  among  her  cush- 
ions and  flowers  and  teacups,  in  the  delicately  luxurious 
room,  her  daughter-in-law  thought  she  had  never  seen; 
nor  was  she  far  wrong.  Years  appeared  only  to  make 
Edith  younger  and  more  charming.  The  contentment 
written  on  her  delicate  features  made  a  quaint  contrast 
with  the  melancholy  of  the  voice  in  which  she  dealt  her- 
self such  abundant  measure  of  pity.  Evelyn  marveled 
at  her  tasteful  dress,  and  was  lost  in  admiration  of  the 
subtle  grace  with  which  lace  and  fur  and  cloth  and  silk 
were  combined  and  fashioned  into  a  harmonious  and 
apparently  simple  costume,  the  most  costly  ingredient 
in  which  was  the  exquisite  cut  and  glovelike  fit. 

"But  I  forgot,"  Mrs.  Belton  added.  "You  will  be 
going  abroad  with  Gwen  and  Gerald — if  Gerald  goes, 
which  seems  doubtful.  You  and  Gwen  will  have  a 


THE   FIRST   STONE  481 

charming  experience,  dear.  But  Gerald — he  grows  more 
dreamy  and  unlike  other  men  every  day.  Poor  boy !  he 
has  something  on  his  mind.  Yet  there  seems  to  be  no 
woman  in  the  case;  I  never  heard  of  his  paying  atten- 
tion to  any  girl — certainly  not  to  any  girl  we  know.  He 
never  recovered  from  Nancy.  Sometimes  I  fancy  that 
he  must  be  following  his  father's  example  and  inventing. 
Richard,  as  you  know,  has  patented  my  poor  husband's 
twin- wheel  bicycle.  But  Gerald  is  not  clever  at  me- 
chanics. Then  I  wonder  if,  like  my  dear  husband  again, 
he  is  speculating.  He  is  perpetually  immersed  in  papers 
and  calculations.  One  can't  be  inquisitive,  but  I  should 
like  to  know  what  is  worrying  the  poor  boy.  He  eats 
nothing,  and  comes  down  in  the  morning  looking  as  if  he 
had  never  slept.  Gerald's  nerves  were  always  too  tense. 
Richard  said  that  soldiering  would  cure  him ;  but  he  was 
wrong.  No  doubt  Richard  knowTs  what  is  troubling  him 
— men  tell  each  other  things.  But  I  do  think  it  hard  that 
a  mother  is  always  left  to  guess  and  wonder  and  be 
twice  as  anxious  as  she  need  be.  He  sent  for  Richard  this 
afternoon,  you  say?" 

"A  most  urgent  message,  upon  which  we  came." 

Edith  pressed  a  button,  and  a  shaded  lamp  upon  the 
table  threw  a  soft  brilliance  over  Evelyn's  fatigued  face 
and  dissipated  the  deepening  shadows  in  the  room. 
"I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  dance  this  evening,"  she 
said,  rising  and  crossing  the  room  for  a  book.  "It  is 
only  an  undress  thing — a  flapper  dance  improvised  this 
morning  for  a  dozen  holiday  boys  and  girls.  You  are 
looking  a  little  pale,  dear;  a  dance  might  brighten 
you  up." 

"I  think  I  am  too  old  to  dance,"  Evelyn  sighed, 
taking  the  book  her  mother-in-law  handed  her. 

Some  pleasant  minutes  were  passed  in  discussing  the 
new  book;  Edith  buried  in  the  depths  of  the  springy 
sofa,  her  feet  in  the  warm  blaze  and  a  screen  to  shield 
her  face  from  it,  pleasantly  conscious  of  the  quiet  of  that 
room,  and  of  occasional  bursts  of  music  and  laughter, 


482  RICHARD    ROSNY 

and  the  sound  of  people  coming  and  going  through  the 
house,  with  a  cheerful  whistle  of  boys  and  their  whole- 
hearted banging  of  doors  and  shouting  down  echoing 
passages. 

Presently  all  these  sounds  lulled  for  a  few  seconds; 
then  there  rang  through  the  silence  a  sudden  loud  cry,  at 
which  both  women  sprang  to  their  feet  with  thrilling 
ears  and  blanched  faces,  looking  one  to  the  other  in  the 
dead  stillness  that  followed. 

"A  man's  voice,"  Evelyn  muttered,  "from  the 
dining-room."  And  with  one  impulse  they  flew  across 
the  hall  and  into  the  dining-room. 

There  was  dead  silence  in  the  lighted  room.  Rich- 
ard was  standing,  tall  and  stern  and  pale,  on  the  hearth ; 
Gerald,  sitting  in  a  deep  chair  by  the  fireside,  had  fallen 
forward,  his  face  on  his  knees,  as  if  struck  down  by  a 
blow.  At  his  mother's  terrified  and  hurried  exclama- 
tions, Gerald  slowly  lifted  a  white  and  quivering  face, 
lighted  by  burning,  horror-stricken  eyes,  and  looked 
round  the  room  from  his  mother  to  Evelyn  and  back 
again. 

"What  is  it?"  Edith  repeated. 

"It  is  murder, ' '  he  muttered,  in  a  dazed  way. 

"Gerald  is  upset,"  Richard  said.  "Will  you  take 
Evelyn  away,  mother?  We  are  discussing  a  painful 
question  between  ourselves." 

"Not  between  ourselves,"  Gerald  quickly  contra- 
dicted. "Stay,  mother,  you  ought  to  know  this;  you 
should  have  known  it  years  ago " 

"Between  ourselves,"  Richard  repeated.  "Go, 
mother ! "  he  added,  stepping  in  front  of  her  and  facing 
Gerald.  "Don't  drag  her  into  it,  Gerald,  I  say,"  he 
added,  stretching  out  an  arm  to  wave  him  back. 

"She  shall  know!"  cried  Gerald,  pressing  past  him 
and  seizing  Edith's  trembling  hand.  "All  the  world 
shall  know.  It  is  he  who  murdered  my  poor  father.  He 
has  confessed  it  at  last — he,  who  took  his  place;  he, 
whose  bread  we  have  been  eating  all  these  years,  to 


THE   FIRST    STONE  483 

whom  we  have  all  looked  up ;  he,  the  liar,  the  hypocrite ! 
OGod!  Oh,  mother!" 

' '  Are  you  mad,  Gerald  ? "  his  mother  asked  with  sud- 
den self-command.  "Do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying  ? ' ' 

Evelyn  looked  in  Richard's  marble  face  with  a  quick 
surge  of  pity  and  love  and  fellowship  flooding  her  heart, 
and  in  a  flash  everything  became  clear  to  her ;  she  under- 
stood her  husband  and  his  strange  life  and  curious  incon- 
sistencies— all  but  his  reticence,  which  to  the  last 
remained  unfathomable  to  her.  Suddenly  she  found 
herself  at  his  side,  her  hand  on  his  arm,  feeling  nearer 
to  him  than  ever  in  his  life  before.  He  took  the  hand 
that  was  on  his  arm,  silently  and  without  looking  at  her, 
but  as  if  it  were  something  he  greatly  needed;  he  had 
turned  now  to  face  his  mother,  whose  first  convulsive 
shuddering  had  given  place  to  the  alert  coolness  she 
sometimes  commanded  in  moments  of  deep  agitation, 
and  at  Gerald,  who  seemed  to  be  beside  himself. 

"I  know  what  I  am  saying;  it  is  all  true,  mother," 
Gerald  repeated.  "I  knew  it  by  instinct  from  the  first. 
I  said  I  would  track  the  murderer  down,  and  I  have. 
There  he  stands." 

"No  murderer,"  Richard  said;  "but  I  killed  him. 
I  had  been  dining  here.  The  wretchedness  was  too 
great;  I  wanted  to  stop  it.  I  had  cycled  off  on  some 
errand  after  dinner,  and  was  coming  back  to  Ingrestone 
and  passing  this  gate,  when  I  saw  a  man  parting  com- 
pany with  my  stepfather  under  the  trees.  Then  I  went 
up  to  him  to  remonstrate  with  him  for  what  I  had  seen 
and  heard  that  day.  I  said  it  must  stop.  He  was  furi- 
ous, I  was  furious.  I  struck,  and  he  fell — dead." 

"Richard!  Richard!"  cried  his  mother.  "My  poor, 
poor  Horace !  And  you  never  told. ' ' 

"Mother,  I  wished  you  never  to  know.  Would  it 
have  done  my  poor  stepfather  any  good?  I  struck  him 
in  anger;  my  hand  was  heavy,  and  he  was  an  older  man 
and  infirm.  It  was  a  crime.  But  God  knows  that  I  did 


484  RICHARD    ROSNY 

not  mean  to  kill  him,  that  I  would  have  given  my  life  to 
call  his  back  again,"  he  cried. 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  cried  Gerald.  "He  can  stand 
there  and  talk  coolly  of  such  a  crime  as  that !  And  after 
all  we  have  said  about  it — Richard  the  philanthropist, 
the  religious  man — he  who  has  never  ceased  to  advise 
me  to  hunt  down  the  man  who  did  it.  Good  Heavens ! 
And  I  never  dreamed  why.  I  never  suspected  for  a  mo- 
ment—  He  called  me  morbid,  hysterical,  knowing  that 
I  was  right." 

"No,"  Richard  interrupted,  "there  was  no  wilful 
killing,  such  as  you  suspected." 

"He  talked  piously  of  shielding  my  poor  father's 
memory,  of  not  exposing  his  failings,  of  sparing  my 
mother's  feelings — he  who  made  her  a  widow.  0  God! 
And  I  believed  and  trusted  him.  He  took  my  father's 
place  and  grew  rich  on  his  name." 

"I  only  held  the  property  in  trust  for  his  children. 
I  touched  no  penny  for  myself,"  Richard  said. 

"He  came  and  went,"  Gerald  continued,  "the  master 
of  this  house,  here  on  the  very  spot  of  the  crime.  He 
deceived  and  married  an  innocent  girl  with  that  stain 
upon  him." 

"Gerald,  you  are  raving!"  Evelyn  broke  in.  "Rich- 
ard told  me  all  before  ever  he  asked  me  to  be  his  wife. ' ' 

"Raving?  That  is  what  he  always  said.  I  was  mad, 
because  I  suspected  the  truth.  He  could  marry  and 
bring  children  into  the  world  with  that  upon  him." 

"God  has  judged  me,  Gerald,  I  have  no  child." 

"He  could  live  under  the  same  roof  and  break  bread 
with  the  mother  he  made  a  widow  and  the  children  he 
orphaned.  And,  mother,  you  say  nothing,  you  do  not 
curse  him?" 

"No,  Gerald,"  she  replied,  quietly  crying;  "I  pity 
him  and  I  pity  you.  Why  do  you  say  all  these  cruel 
things?" 

"I  say  truth,  and  one  calls  me  cruel  and  all  call  me 
mad.  Would  you  have  me  smile  and  smile  and  look 


THE   FIRST   STONE  485 

pleasant  1  Perhaps  you  would  have  me  thank  him.  Oh, 
don't  mention  it — of  no  consequence — such  a  trifle  as 
killing  a  man's  father — of  having  dust  thrown  in  one's 
eyes — such  a  trifle  as  being  deluded,  befooled,  and  cajoled 
all  one's  life;  of  having  for  best  friend,  of  living  with, 
taking  advice  of,  trusting  the  murderer " 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,  Gerald," 
Kichard  interposed.  "You  are  startled  and  shocked. 
This  has  been  too  much  for  you " 

' '  Far  too  much.  A  great  deal  too  much.  The  world 
is  all  lies — no  truth  anywhere,  no  honor,  no  trust " 

"Spare  our  mother,  Gerald.  Let  me  leave  you  till 
you  are  calmer,"  Richard  said,  turning  toward  the  door. 

"No,  no,"  Gerald  cried,  stepping  before  him  and 
barring  the  way ;  ' '  not  quite  so  easily.  There  will  be  a 
warrant  against  you.  Plenty  of  proof  now.  Your  con- 
fession is  evidence  against  you." 

"You  seriously  mean  to  prosecute,  then?"  Richard 
said,  turning  slowly  back.  "Don't  act  in  passion,  Ger- 
ald. Think  it  over  first.  Sleep  a  night  upon  it." 

"Sleep?  Sleep  after  this?  And  give  you  time  to 
escape  ? ' ' 

"Don't  be  afraid;  I  give  you  my  word  to  stay  at 
home.  If  you  decide  to  get  this  warrant,  Gerald,  let 
it  be  done  as  quietly  as  possible.  I  will  go  with  you  to 
the  magistrate — who  would  it  be?  I  believe  I  am  the 
nearest,  myself.  Or  is  it  Chesney?  Then  I  would  make 
a  full  statement.  I  suppose  it  would  have  to  come  before 
a  jury  at  the  next  assize.  I  should  plead  guilty.  The 
charge  would  be  manslaughter.  The  sentence  probably 
a  year  or  two. ' ' 

A  door  opening  while  he  was  speaking  let  out  a 
chorus  of  laughter,  followed  by  a  helter-skelter,  head- 
long charge  of  rioting  boys  down  a  corridor  into  the  dis- 
tance. A  door  banged  like  a  pistol-shot,  and  Edith,  who 
had  been  silently  crying,  started  forward  with  an  amazed 
cry  of,  "Richard!  Gerald!  are  you  both  mad?" 

"Don't  touch  him,"  cried  Gerald,  stepping  between 


486  RICHARD    ROSNY 

them,  "his  hands  are  full  of  blood!  He  has  confessed 
it.  How  can  you  bear  the  sight  of  him?" 

' '  How  can  you  ? ' '  she  returned.  ' '  Look  at  him,  Ger- 
ald," pointing  to  Richard,  who  had  pushed  the  heavy 
hair  off  his  forehead,  bringing  the  dark-red  scar  left  by 
the  burning  into  prominence.  ' '  How  did  that  scar  come 
upon  his  forehead  ?  How  did  those  marks  come  upon  his 
face  ?  What  crippled  his  arm  ?  Where  would  you  have 
been  but  for  that  burn?  If  my  poor  son  took  one  life 
unintentionally  in  his  passion,  how  many  has  he  saved 
deliberately  at  the  risk  of  his  own?" 

' '  I  wish  to  Heaven  he  had  left  me  to  suffocate ! ' '  Ger- 
ald said  miserably.  "But  it  can  not  alter  his  guilt  or 
my  duty." 

"If  it  is  your  duty,"  Richard  added,  "mother,  I  am 
grieved  to  bring  this  on  you.  I  am  indeed  a  guilty  man. 
My  violence  made  you  a  widow;  I  hoped  you  would 
never  have  the  pain  of  knowing.  There  was  no  one  else 
to  take  care  of  the  children." 

"There  was  our  Uncle  Godfrey,"  Gerald  contra- 
dicted. 

"I  may  have  been  wrong;  but  I  thought  I  could  do 
better  by  working  for  you  and  the  children  than  by  giv- 
ing myself  up  and  making  all  the  misery  public, ' '  Rich- 
ard said  humbly.  ' '  At  first  I  tried  to  hide  it  for  Kath- 
leen's  sake — and  of  course  for  my  own.  But  Kathleen, 
when  I  told  her  what  I  had  done,  turned  against  me,  and 
broke  off  the  engagement;  she  had  a  horror  of  me;  it 
was  only  natural.  But,  mother" — his  voice  shook — "I 
couldn't  have  you  against  me." 

"My  poor,  poor  boy!" 

' '  But  justice  has  overtaken  me  at  last.  You  will  turn 
against  me  now." 

"Never,  Richard,  never!  Turn  against  my  dearest 
child?  Richard,  Richard!  you  have  been  everything  to 
me  all  your  life  long,  and  I  have  tried  you  sorely.  I 
tried  my  poor  Horace.  With  a  better  wife  he  might  have 
been  a  better  man.  Oh,  what  am  I  to  condemn  you — 


THE   FIRST   STONE  487 

I,  who  wished  him  dead,  who  hoped  time  and  again  that 
he  might  not  wake  from  his  drugged  sleeps — I,  who 
was  actually  glad — yes  glad — when  his  poor  body  was 
brought  in  that  morning?  Yes,  Gerald,  you  may  well 
look  horror-stricken.  Your  mother  has  been  a  sinful 
woman.  She  had  your  father's  death  in  her  heart  while 
your  brother  had  it  only  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  bitter 
marriage  I  made " 

"Mother!  Mother!"  Richard  remonstrated.  —  "I 
warned  you,  Gerald." 

"Oh,  poor  Gerald!"  sobbed  his  mother,  "you  were 
so  young.  You  didn't  know.  You  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  live  in  constant  terror  and  shame  day  and  night; 
to  be  always  trying  to  conceal,  to  be  dragged  about  by 
the  hair,  to  see  your  own  little,  helpless  children  ill  used 
and  neglected,  growing  up  wild  and  miserable.  You 
don 't  know,  you  don 't  know !  But  Richard  knew,  and  it 
maddened  him,"  she  sobbed. 

"It  was  the  bruises,"  Richard  added  with  his  white 
lips — and  Evelyn  felt  the  strong  shudder  that  ran  through 
him  at  the  memory.  ' '  The  bruised  face  the  lace  could  not 
hide.  And  what  Gerald  told  me  that  afternoon  under 
the  pines.  I  didn't  know  till  then."  She  pressed  closer 
to  him,  crushing  the  bruised  arm  to  which  she  clung, 
filling  his  body  with  pain  and  his  heart  with  exquisite 
comfort. 

Through  the  tense  silence  that  followed  she  heard 
in  the  clear  notes  of  the  piano  above  the  opening  adagio 
of  the  sonata  in  C  sharp  Minor  that  Adeline  was  play- 
ing with  unusually  tender  and  true  touch,  because 
Rupert  Chesney  was  standing  by  listening  and  her  heart 
was  full  as  never  before.  The  strange  glamour,  the 
subdued  passion,  the  unutterable  longing,  perpetually 
breaking  through  the  charmed  peace  of  low-toned  waves 
with  deep  boom  of  distant  surges,  penetrated  and  bound 
Evelyn's  consciousness  like  a  spell  of  magic.  Again, 
as  on  that  August  night,  her  senses  were  enchained  and 
her  heart  melted  by  the  subtle  passion  and  deep  charm 


488  RICHARD   ROSNY 

of  sea-music  and  waves  and  moonlight;  her  pulses 
throbbed  deeply  and  every  throb  was  for  the  man  by 
her  side,  to  whom  every  fiber  of  her  nature  vibrated. 
That  wild  and  wicked  disloyalty  that  had  so  nearly 
wrecked  their  lives  now  seemed  incredible,  the  memory  of 
it  was  intolerable.  Richard  needed  her  and  that  made 
him  very  dear.  His  suffering  and  sacrifice  restored  to  him 
the  lost  aureole  of  her  youthful  fancy;  his  long-repented 
crime  brought  them  to  a  mysterious  nearness  and  sym- 
pathy; Gerald's  hostility  roused  every  loyal  instinct  to 
his  defense.  And  this  was  no  selfish  crime — as  from  his 
confession  of  the  bare  fact  long  ago  she  had  imagined — 
rather  an  excess  of  righteous  anger  and  generous  indig- 
nation; a  sin  in  harmony  with  the  early,  knightly  ideal 
that  sprang  to  life  when  she  woke  on  the  river,  and 
looked  into  his  still,  strong  face  and  deep,  glowing  eyes, 
and  loved  him  with  a  lasting  love  before  there  was  time 
to  think. 

" Mother,"  he  said,  at  last  mastering  his  feelings,  "I 
did  wrong  and  I  ought  to  suffer.  And  I  have  suffered. 
I  have  tried  to  put  myself  in  his  place  and  bear  his  bur- 
dens. I  have  tried  to  give  up  my  life  for  his.  Godfrey 
Belton  showed  me  a  way  to  do  it.  It  is  done.  Perhaps, 
as  Gerald  thinks,  I  ought  to  give  myself  up  to  justice 
now.  But — but — my  wife — my  innocent  wife " 

''Every  criminal  can  plead  that,"  Gerald  retorted 
with  scorn,  "children,  parents,  or  wife.  The  innocent 
must  suffer  when  justice  is  done  to  the  guilty." 

"Gerald,"  said  his  mother,  "must  we  all  suffer  be- 
cause you  can  not  forgive  your  brother — your  brother, 
who  has  been  more  than  father  to  you,  to  whom  you  owe 
everything — your  very  life " 

"Ah!"  cried  Gerald,  "that  is  the  sting.  To  have 
been  deceived  all  these  years ;  to  have  looked  up  to  him ; 
to  have  lived  on  the  hand  that  took  my  father's  life " 

"Oh,  Gerald,  think  of  the  others — Adeline  so  happy 
in  her  approaching  marriage — must  she  be  punished? 
Archie  and  Harry  just  beginning  life,  and  poor  Molly — 


THE   FIRST   STONE  489 

why  should  their  lives  be  darkened  ?  Why  should  such  a 
blight  fall  upon  them?  And  Guy  and  little  Gwen — 
what  wrong  have  those  poor  children  done?  Why  must 
they  be  sacrificed?  You  are  hard,  Gerald.  The  day 
may  come  when  you'll  need  mercy  yourself." 

''Everybody  is  against  me,"  was  his  bitter  reply. 
' '  But  justice  shall  be  done.  My  father  shall  be  avenged. ' ' 

"Is  there  no  vengeance  in  twelve  years'  repentance 
and  bitter  regret?"  Richard  asked  in  his  deep  voice. 

' '  Repentence !  Regret !  A  man  who  repents,  con- 
fesses and  takes  the  penalty.  He  doesn  't  pose  as  a  philan- 
thropist. He  doesn't  go  about  the  world  talking  respect 
and  affection  that  he  has  no  right  to,  heaping  up  money, 
marrying  and  giving  in  marriage — a  secret  criminal, 
judging  and  sentencing  from  the  bench  when  he  should 
be  in  the  dock  himself ;  going  to  church  and  making  hypo- 
critical prayers  to  heaven  for  forgiveness,  when  he  has 
broken  the  laws  of  God  and  man,  and  never  made  repa- 
ration, never  given  himself  up  to  human  justice.  Church- 
warden Rosny  is  a  hypocrite." 

Richard  had  left  Evelyn's  clinging  hand  and  walked 
into  the  farthest  part  of  the  room  while  his  mother  was 
speaking.  When  Gerald  addressed  him  he  came  back 
and  stood  before  him,  looking  sadly  in  his  face. 

"You  hit  straight  and  hard,"  he  said.  "But  are  you 
sure  that  I  have  broken  human  laws?  Surely  society — 
human  law — only  takes  cognizance  of  open  breaches.  It 
exacts  no  adequate  retribution  and  has  no  purifying 
power;  it  is  only  tentative  and  preventive.  It  acts  in 
self-defense;  its  penalties  are  deterrent  and  defensive. 
A  known  and  proven  crime  is  punished  for  an  example, 
to  prevent  its  repetition — not  according  to  its  intrinsic 
moral  guilt,  but  according  to  its  effect  upon  social  life. 
Some  of  the  worst  crimes  are  not  punishable  by  man's 
laws  at  all.  My  crime  was  never  even  suspected ;  it  had  no 
effect  upon  social  life;  it  was  between  my  soul  and  my 
Maker  and  Judge  alone.  My  stepfather  was  a  doomed 
man,  suffering  from  mortal  disease ;  my  crime  shortened 


490  RICHARD   ROSNY 

his  life — if  at  all,  which  I  sometimes  doubt — only  by  a 
few  weeks,  perhaps  days." 

"You  excuse  yourself  for  killing  a  dying  man?" 
Gerald  burst  out. 

"No,  no.  It  does  not  lessen,  rather  increases,  my 
crime;  but  it  takes  it  out  of  human  jurisdiction  by 
making  it  of  no  social  importance;  human  jurisdiction 
only  deals  with  obvious  social  wrong.  I  owed  society 
no  reparation;  I  had  not  shocked  people's  conscience 
by  the  criminal  brutality  seen  by  no  eye  but  God's. 
I  am  not  bound  to  shock  that  conscience  in  order  to 
make  an  inadequate  reparation  to  it.  My  sin  was  to  my- 
self, between  my  soul  and  God  alone.  If  there  had 
been  any  question  of  a  crime,  if  any  one  had  been  sus- 
pected, the  duty  of  confessing  would  have  been  quite 
clear. ' ' 

' '  Sophistry !  Jesuitism !  And  the  victim  of  the  crime, 
the  helpless  victim?  No  reparation  to  him?" 

"None  was  possible.  Ah!  there  is  the  sting  indeed. 
God  has  forgiven  me,  but  I  can  not  forgive  myself. 
Nothing  can  call  him  back  to  life.  Yet  I  sometimes  think 
— dare  to  hope — the  mercy  of  God  is  infinite,  and  who 
shall  say?" — he  broke  off,  lost  in  larger  thoughts  and 
apparently  forgetful  of  those  present,  his  mother  again 
quietly  crying,  as  she  sat  on  a  lounge,  her  arm  propped 
on  the  edge  and  her  hand  over  her  face,  with  Evelyn  at 
her  side. 

Gerald  made  no  reply,  but,  with  a  look  of  contemp- 
tuous indignation  at  Richard,  resumed  his  seat  at  the 
writing-table,  and  taking  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  rapidly 
covered  and  signed  it  and  placed  it  in  an  envelope.  Rich- 
ard, after  a  few  minutes'  silent  thought,  during  which 
the  presto  of  the  great  sonata  was  heard  surging  in 
splendid  tumult  through  the  house  with  many  a  dying 
fall  and  sudden  exultant  storm-burst,  until  the  bells 
ringing  for  New  Year's  eve  pealed  out  and  thundered 
through  it,  turned  to  Edith  and  signed  to  her  to  come 
away  with  him.  He  unlocked  the  door,  at  which  serv- 


THE   FIRST   STONE  491 

ants,  wanting  to  set  the  table,  had  knocked  more  than 
once. 

"Come,  Evelyn,"  he  said. — "Good  night,  Gerald. 
Keep  that  letter  twelve  hours  and  think  it  over.  Ah! 
who  is  this?  Nancy?" 

' '  Yes,  Nancy, ' '  was  the  cheery  answer  from  the  hall. 
"I  came  by  an  early  train,  because  the  next  would  be 
too  late  for  dinner.  Why,  what  is  the  matter?" 

' '  I  have  found  the  man,  Nancy, ' '  Gerald  said,  coming 
forward  into  the  hall. 

"Then  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  she  replied  gravely. 
' '  I  knew  who  it  was  years  ago. ' ' 

"What,  you  too,  Nancy?    You  kept  this  from  me?" 

"Certainly,  dear  Gerald." 

"Why,  it  is  a  conspiracy  of  silence — a  crime  in  itself. 
Was  it  well  to  shield  your  cousin  at  the  expense  of  an 
injustice,  Nancy?"  he  asked  with  sad  reproach. 

"Not  my  cousin  Richard — my  friend  Gerald.  I 
wished  to  shield  him  from  painful  and  profitless  knowl- 
edge,"  she  said,  leading  him  from  the  dining-room  door, 
where  servants  were  now  going  and  coming,  to  a 
screened  recess  near  the  hall  fire.  "And  your  mother, 
too,"  she  added,  glancing  at  the  white  and  stricken  face 
of  Edith,  who  went  with  Richard  into  the  morning- 
room. 

"Richard,  dear,"  his  mother  asked,  when  they  were 
alone,  "Kathleen — and  I  suppose  her  husband — and 
Nancy  and  Evelyn,  all  know  and  have  long  known  this 
terrible  thing.  Is  it  known  elsewhere?" 

"Gatrell  knows,  mother.  He  had  seen  me  go  in  on 
that  night,  and  from  the  first  suspected  the  truth,  which 
Nancy  accidentally  stumbled  upon  years  later.  A  few 
weeks  after  that  night,  Gatrell  found  the  ring  I  lost 
there  by  the  cross  in  the  struggle.  Years  later  Nancy 
remembered  having  seen  me  go  in  to  the  Pines  from 
Ingrestone  House  that  night,  and  she  knew  that  Kathleen 
had  some  valid  reason  for  breaking  off  the  engagement. ' ' 

"I  thank  Heaven  that  Nancy  is  here  to-night,"  she 


492  RICHARD   ROSNY 

said.  "If  any  one  can  dissuade  Gerald  from  this  hor- 
rible thing,  it  is  she.  I  sinned  against  my  poor  husband, 
Richard,  and  my  sin  has  found  me  out.  For  if  Gerald 
does  this  thing  it  will  kill  me." 

But  Gerald  did  it.  He  had  been  too  long  under  the 
influence  of  a  dominant  idea,  founded  partly  upon  a  real 
sense  of  duty  and  partly  upon  a  morbid  terror  generated 
by  a  severe  shock  at  an  impressionable  and  sensitive  age, 
and  exaggerated  by  long  brooding  of  a  nervous  and 
imaginative  temperament  upon  it,  to  be  able  to  renounce 
what  had  become  the  one  serious  purpose  of  his  life. 
Many  suffered  by  that  deed,  but  of  all  those  concerned, 
Richard  suffered  the  least  and  Gerald  the  most.  Yet 
Gerald  drew  a  great  peace  out  of  his  own  suffering;  for 
he  had  tried,  however  mistakenly,  to  do  his  duty  at  a 
great  cost  to  himself,  and  the  morbid  mental  condition, 
that  was  perilously  near  actual  disease,  at  this  time  left 
him  with  calmed  nerves  and  a  manlier  tone  of  mind  than 
he  had  ever  had  before. 


CHAPTER   XLI 

AUTUMN   SUNSET 

THE  dying  year  was  slowly  burning  itself  out  in 
gorgeous  woodland  and  many-hued  hedgerow;  a  broad 
and  burnished  sea  glowed  nightly  in  splendor  of  purple 
and  gold;  haze  of  softest  blue  lay  daily  like  a  magic 
dream  upon  the  earth.  The  robin's  song,  that  is  so  sad 
because  it  is  so  gay  and  so  gay  because  it  is  so  sad, 
summed  the  whole  of  the  pathos  and  heart-break  of  life 
in  a  few  tremulous,  wildly  sweet  notes  and  ceased.  Then 
it  would  ring  out  again  in  cheerful  tenderness  and 
pathetic  courage,  filling  the  sunny  garden  with  music 
fresher  than  morning  and  more  tranquil  than  night. 

On  one  such  day  Nancy  Rosny  stood  by  the  sun-dial 
on  the  golden  turf  in  the  vicarage  garden  and  listened  to 
the  brave  little  singer  in  that  mood  which  lends  poign- 
ancy to  all  natural  sounds  and  sights;  little  Harold 
stood  near,  clutching  at  her  skirts  and  stammering  out 
a  breathless  babble  of  baby  incoherence,  helped  out  by 
gestures  and  the  eloquence  of  wide,  blue  eyes. 

"Harold's  story  is  something  like  mine,  Kitty.  No- 
body knows  what  it  is  all  about — except  the  teller,  and 
he  can't  get  it  out,"  Nancy  said. 

"It's  the  human  story,"  Herbert  explained,  "the 
story  all  the  poets  and  romancers  have  been  trying  to 
tell  ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  world." 

"Sometimes  they  get  it  out,"  Kathleen  amended; 
looking  from  her  work  to  the  boy,  whose  stammering 
drama  was  culminating  in  a  shout  of  ecstatic  laughter. 

"Yes,  now  and  again  they  become  articulate  in  a 
phrase  or  a  luminous  burst  of  humor,"  Herbert  said, 
32  493 


494  RICHARD   ROSNY 

snatching  up  the  child  to  kiss.  "But  come,  Nan,  let  us 
hear  your  story.  Those  girls  really  saw  you  and  not 
your  wraith  on  the  cliff  with  Musgrave  that  morning, 
and  you  and  not  your  wraith  meeting  him  on  the  pier 
in  the  evening,  I  take  it." 

' '  What  they  saw  was  pretty  substantial  for  a  wraith, 
Herbert;  it  weighed  heavily,  especially  at  the  heart." 

"A  pity  the  story  breaks  off  there.  One  wonders 
what  on  earth  such  a  girl  as  Nancy  Rosny  could  be 
doing  with  such  a  man  as  that." 

"Wondering  about  it  isn't  playing  the  game,"  Nancy 
said.  "Some  parts  mustn't  be  talked  about."  As  she 
spoke  she  crumpled  a  packet  in  her  hand,  which  her 
friends  knew  to  be  a  rejected  manuscript  stamped  with 
that  mark  of  the  beast,  "Declined  with  thanks."  Not 
so  much  the  manuscript  as  Nancy  herself  in  her  last 
attempt  to  gain  a  livelihood  and  support  her  home, 
seemed  to  be  declined  with  those  stereotyped  thanks  and 
practically  snuffed  out. 

"The  path  of  literature,"  Herbert  told  her,  "is 
thorny,  especially  before  you  begin  to  tread  it.  You 
have  thoughts,  imaginings,  knowledge,  ideas;  but  peo- 
ple may  not  want  them,  or  they  may  not  want  your  way 
of  setting  them  out.  Whereas,  everybody  who  possesses  a 
pack  of  unruly  girls  wants  them  to  go  to  school,  if  only 
to  keep  them  out  of  the  way.  And  nothing  but  this 
difficulty  of  explaining  those  meetings  last  December 
prevents  you  from  going  back  to  Casterford?" 

"Ah!  you  don't  know  our  Head.  No  explanation 
would  make  her  reinstate  me  on  the  staff,  even  if  my 
place  were  not  already  filled.  The  Casterford  girls  hav- 
ing seen  me  under  such  circumstances  with  such  a  man 
is  enough.  It  has  been  talked  about  at  Casterford; 
nothing  can  alter  it.  The  Head  will  have  no  woman  on 
the  staff,  or  child  in  the  school,  who  has  been  talked 
about.  Besides,  I  have  no  explanation  to  give,  and  when 
I  try  for  another  post,  it  is  always,  'Why  did  she  leave 
Casterford?'  And  Miss  Arundel's  fine  testimonials 


AUTUMN    SUNSET  495 

always  give  the  cause.  She  has  every  confidence  in  Miss 
Rosny,  etc.,  but " 

' '  Well,  I  call  her  a  hag — a  hard  old  hag.  She  should 
hear  your  explanation  in  camera,  under  the  seal  of  con- 
fession, and  laugh  at  idle  tongues.  She  makes  the  repu- 
tation of  the  school  a  fetish.  She  immolates  you  on  the 
altar  of  her  own  obstinate  Mrs.  Grundyism." 

"I  don't  blame  her.  It's  the  honor  of  the  greatest 
school  in  England — which  means  the  higher  female  edu- 
cation in  England — against  the  life  of  Annis  Rosny," 
Nancy  stoutly  maintained. 

The  New  Year's  morning  that  was  to  have  brought 
her  so  much  happiness  after  those  agitated  days  in  which 
she  had  fought  her  two  great  battles  for  Richard,  brought 
her  a  letter  from  Basil  Mayne,  regretting  in  the  most 
civil  and  correct  terms  that  a  sudden  turn  in  the  affairs 
of  Goldenose  called  him  back  to  Camford,  and  obliged 
him  to  renounce  the  pleasure  he  had  proposed  to  him- 
self of  coming  to  lunch  that  morning  and  in  person  wish- 
ing them  all  a  Happy  New  Year.  And  the  new  year  was 
only  a  few  days  old  when  Nancy  was  painfully  surprised 
by  receiving  an  abrupt  dismissal  from  Casterford  Col- 
lege, on  account  of  circumstances  that  had  come  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  authorities. 

The  days  went  on  and  she  was  not  reinstated.  The 
new  master  of  Goldenose  was  appointed,  the  appoint- 
ment was  fully  discussed,  accepted,  and  forgotten;  but 
no  letter,  message,  or  communication  of  any  kind  came 
from  Basil  Mayne. 

Then  Annis  knew  that  the  idyl  centering  in  the  sonata 
in  C  sharp  Minor  had  come  to  an  end,  and  wondered 
greatly.  Basil  Mayne,  to  go  so  far,  profess  so  much, 
and  turn  away  at  the  critical  moment — Basil !  Men  truly 
were  ever  so  "since  summer  first  was  leavy,"  but  not 
such  men  as  the  master  of  Goldenose.  It  appeared  that 
neither  solidity  of  character,  nor  intellectual  distinction, 
nor  scholarship,  nor  high  principle,  nor  unworldliness, 
nor  anything,  was  a  preservative  from  inherent  mascu- 


496  RICHARD   ROSNY 

line  frailty.  It  was  very  sad.  It  was  clear  that  the 
man  was  not  worth  a  sigh,  yet  Nancy  sighed.  He  was 
not  worth  a  thought,  yet  she  thought  of  him  all  day 
long  and  most  of  the  night. 

"What  ruthless  creatures  you  women  are  on  prin- 
ciple!" was  Herbert's  comment  on  this  piece  of  Caster- 
ford  discipline.  "Most  of  you,  mercifully,  are  quite 
illogical,  else  there  would  be  no  living  with  you  any 
more  than  there  is  without  you."  With  this  remark 
he  thought  it  prudent  to  disappear  from  the  garden  and 
the  house. 

He  had  not  been  long  gone  before  Rosny  was  seen 
coming  through  the  open  drawing-room  window  to  find 
them. 

Six  months'  imprisonment  with  hard  labor  can 
scarcely  be  a  cheerful  experience,  but  it  may  be  highly 
instructive,  and  it  actually  had  been  productive  of  great 
peace  and  satisfaction  to  Rosny  personally.  It  contented 
a  natural  desire  for  formal  and  definite  penance,  and 
satisfied  an  instinct  for  justice  and  openness,  while  it 
could  inflict  no  serious  harm  at  his  age.  For  its  effect 
on  his  position  in  the  world  he  cared  little;  if  he  were 
disqualified  to  carry  out  his  philanthropic  schemes,  he 
knew  that  better  men  would  be  found  to  do  it.  Whatever 
he  was  fit  to  do  would  doubtless  be  put  into  his  hand ; 
it  might  be  little  or  it  might  be  much;  in  either  case  he 
bowed  his  head  and  gave  thanks. 

He  had  slipped  back  after  his  imprisonment  into  the 
accustomed  groove,  almost  as  if  he  had  never  left  it. 
Hats  were  touched  to  him  and  hands  offered  him  much 
as  before ;  here  and  there  was  a  stiffness,  here  and  there 
a  blank  face  looking  past  him,  here  and  there  increased 
cordiality.  His  crime  was  no  disgrace;  in  some  eyes  it 
was  no  crime  at  all;  in  others,  a  pardonable  weakness; 
while  those  were  found  who  even  held  the  act  for  which 
he  was  sentenced  as  commendable.  With  regard  to  the 
concealment  opinion  was  divided.  Then  it  had  happened 
so  long  ago,  and  he  had  since  built  up  a  reputation  that 


AUTUMN   SUNSET  497 

nothing  could  shake;  what  he  was,  was  known;  what  he 
had  been  was  of  little  consequence. 

' '  Was  I  right  to  break  with  Richard,  Herbert  ? ' '  was 
Kathleen's  first  word  when  her  long-guarded  secret  be- 
came public. 

"Who  can  say  that,  Kitty?"  he  replied,  after  some 
thought.  ' '  If  you  had  cared  more  you  would  have  stuck 
to  him.  But  your  breaking  was  probably  the  making 
of  him.  For  a  strong  nature  needs  strong  discipline." 

Richard  had  wished  Evelyn  to  leave  Wimbury  and 
all  its  painful  associations  before  his  sentence;  but  she 
had  thought  it  better  to  wear  out  those  old  associations 
and  create  fresh  ones  as  wrell  as  to  silence  local  scandal 
by  keeping  on  the  old  tenor  of  her  tranquil  life.  Lady 
Randal  called  at  the  cottage;  Evelyn  dined  and  spent 
literary  and  musical  mornings  at  the  Retreat  when  the 
Chesneys  were  alone ;  Ronald  was  spoken  of  without  per- 
ceptible constraint  on  either  side,  and  his  movements 
were  reported  from  time  to  time.  Lady  Randal  had 
her  own  thoughts  upon  what  had  passed  between  Evelyn 
and  her  brother.  She  was  no  prude,  and  would  scarcely 
have  dealt  blame  to  either  of  them  had  she  known  the 
whole  truth.  As  it  was,  she  pitied  Evelyn  a  little  and 
admired  her  much,  deciding  that  she  had  extricated  her- 
self very  cleverly  from  an  embarrassing  situation.  She 
was  furious  with  Gerald  for  the  part  he  had  played 
toward  Richard,  and  did  not  scruple  to  say  so. 

"I  admire  your  husband  more  than  ever,"  she  told 
Evelyn.  "As  for  knocking  his  detestable  old  stepfather 
down,  no  boy  worth  his  salt  could  have  helped  it.  He 
ought  to  have  done  it  long  before,  but  it  seems  that  he 
was  ignorant  of  what  his  poor  mother  had  suffered  till 
that  unlucky  night.  Very  likely  Thorne  knew  or  guessed 
the  truth  when  he  gave  his  certificate,  and  quite  right 
too.  If  ever  homicide  was  justifiable  that  was.  My  dear, 
people  knew  all  about  poor  Mrs.  Belton's  black  eyes  and 
high  frocks  long  before.  And  the  poor  boy  meant  noth- 
ing but  an  expression  of  natural  feeling.  That  stupid 


498  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Gerald!  It's  a  stupid  world,  and  your  husband  is  one 
of  the  few  sensible  people  in  it — a  man  of  deeds,  not 
words;  a  strong  man." 

All  the  same,  Lady  Randal  thought,  it  might  be 
pleasanter  to  marry  a  weaker  man  with  more  to  say  for 
himself. 

But  Rosny  had  more  to  say  for  himself  after  com- 
pleting his  sentence ;  his  moral  atmosphere  was  lightened 
and  exhilarated,  and  something  of  the  old  frankness 
and  gaiety  returned ;  he  laughed  at  little  things.  He  was 
less  burdened  with  business,  and  when  affairs  took  him 
from  home,  it  was  understood  that  Evelyn  followed  him. 

"So  I  have  left  off  being  a  piece  of  furniture  and 
become  a  fellow-creature,"  she  reflected. 

And  in  some  way  quite  incomprehensible  to  Richard, 
his  sentence  had  drawn  Evelyn  closer  to  him  and  revealed 
many  fine  features  in  her  character.  She  had  been  very 
good  to  poor  Mrs.  Belton,  who,  during  the  term  of  her 
son's  imprisonment,  had  been  very  ill — almost  to  death — 
whence  Evelyn's  constant  and  tender  care  had  in  great 
measure  brought  her  back,  an  aged  and  shattered  woman. 

Adeline  had  married  her  loyal  hussar  in  the  simplest 
and  least  public  manner  possible,  and  had  gone  out  to 
the  Cape  with  him  soon  afterward.  Gerald  had  gone 
back  to  South  Africa  in  the  spring ;  he  had  been  among 
those  soldiers  hurried  into  Natal  to  repel  the  sudden 
Boer  invasion  in  the  early  October  of  that  year  and  was 
now  a  prisoner  of  war  at  Pretoria.  His  mother  took 
this  disaster  very  quietly,  Richard  told  them;  she  was 
on  the  whole  rather  glad  that  the  dear  boy  was  safely 
locked  up  at  Pretoria  out  of  harm's  way.  That  Gerald 
had  lost  his  chance  and  incurred  bitter  humiliation  did 
not  enter  her  mind,  nor  did  it  occur  to  her  to  think  what 
a  semicivilized  enemy  might  do  with  prisoners  of  war, 
or  of  the  possibility  that  Gerald  might  break  his  prison 
and  so  lose  his  life. 

Richard  had  scarcely  joined  the  group  on  the  lawn 
when  a  step  was  heard  on  the  gravel  and  the  master  of 


AUTUMN    SUNSET  499 

Goldenose  came  round  the  corner  of  the  house,  returning 
unexpectedly  from  a  visit  that  was  not  to  have  ended,  his 
friends  supposed,  until  late  in  the  evening — a  fact  that  in- 
duced Nancy  to  consent  to  spend  the  day  at  the  vicarage, 
those  two  not  having  met  since  the  previous  December. 

The  near-sighted  scholar  did  not  at  first  recognize 
the  figure  leaning  on  the  sun-dial,  not  until  she  turned, 
straightened  herself,  and  looked  in  his  face,  her  own  a 
little  pale,  but  composed  and  cheerful.  Then  he  started, 
stepped  backward,  came  forward  again  and  began  to 
stammer  out  no  one  knew  what. 

"How  are  you?"  Nancy  said,  turning  back  to  the 
baby  girl  who  lay  gurgling  on  a  rug  in  the  sunshine  at 
the  foot  of  the  sun-dial. 

"How  are  you,  Rosny?"  the  master  said,  after 
recovering  himself  and  censuring  the  warmth  of  the 
October  sun,  and  explaining  at  some  length  to  Kathleen 
his  unexpected  return. 

Then  Kathleen  went  to  the  sun-dial,  and  had  the 
children  taken  indoors.  "These  autumn  days  close  in 
so  chilly,"  she  said  absently. 

"I  bring  you  news,  Nan,"  said  Richard,  who  had 
followed  Kathleen  to  the  sun-dial.  "You  are  to  be 
classical  lecturer  at  this  women's  college  at  Airedale." 

"No!"  she  almost  shouted.  "It's  too  good  to  be 
true.  I  did  apply,  it  is  true,  but  only  as  a  forlorn 
hope." 

"It's  quite  true,"  he  affirmed,  and  the  master,  who 
had  joined  the  group  round  the  dial,  on  which  Nancy 
now  leaned  her  arms,  looking  across  the  gnomon  with 
shining  eyes  and  pleased  face,  listened  with  an  eagerly 
interrogative  countenance.  "You  will  receive  the  official 
announcement  to-morrow.  Mrs.  Mayne,"  he  added, 
1 '  you  will  be  more  glad  than  surprised  to  know  that  the 
Casterford  authorities  have  at  last  had  that  piece  of 
gossip  satisfactorily  explained." 

"I  am  all  adrift,"  Kathleen  replied.  "I  was  not 
aware  till  this  afternoon  that  there  was  any  gossip." 


500  RICHARD   ROSNY 

"We  only  heard  it  quite  recently  ourselves,  through 
those  wretched  schoolgirls  who  made  all  the  mischief. 
And  then,  my  wife  happening  to  refer  to  the  true  his- 
tory of  that  day,"  he  added  with  a  little  sigh,  "also 
quite  recently,"  he  said,  looking  up  into  Nancy's  face, 
in  which  he  read  sympathy  and  understanding,  "it  ap- 
peared to  us  that  we  held  the  key  to  the  mystery,  and 
Evelyn  went  to  Casterford  without  delay.  Miss  Arundel 
at  once  saw  that  she  had  acted  under  a  mistake,  and 
made  interest  in  every  direction  for  Nancy.  Among 
other  things,  she  suggested  this  appointment.  We  have 
just  heard  from  her,  Nan.  She  has  kept  counsel;  no 
confidence  has  been  violated,"  he  added,  with  another 
little  sigh. 

"Oh,  Dick,  dear  Dick,  I  am  glad,"  Nancy  said, 
almost  crying,  and  he  knew  that  her  gladness  was  less 
for  herself  than  for  him  and  Evelyn. 

The  master,  who  had  been  looking  hard  at  the  rose 
that  climbed  about  the  dial-stem,  now  looked  at  Nancy,  his 
face  suffused  a  deep-brown  blush,  his  glasses  misty. 

"May  I  congratulate,  since  you  are  glad?"  he  asked, 
in  an  unusually  meek  voice,  while  Kathleen  suddenly  fell 
upon  Nancy's  neck  and  kissed  her. 

"Ah!"  said  Richard,  with  a  grave  smile,  "there's 
nothing  like  friendship." 

"Except  love,"  added  Herbert,  who  had  just  come 
up.  "That's  best  of  all." 

"Friendship  wears  best,"  Richard  said,  with  the 
same  grave  smile. 

"I'm  to  be  classical  lecturer  at  Airedale  College,  Her- 
bert, ' '  cried  Nancy,  extracting  a  radiant  face  from  Kath- 
leen's  embrace,  "and  Kitty  and  I  have  lost  our  heads 
over  it." 

' '  Hurrah,  Nan !  I  could  jump  for  joy  myself — were 
it  not  unclerical." 

"Oh,  do;  please  do!  Waltz  five  times  round  the 
grass  with  Kitty,  and  fling  up  your  hat  in  my  honor." 

"Too  much  sadness  in  life  for  that,  Nancy  dear," 


AUTUMN   SUNSET  501 

with  an  affectionate  smile.  "Let's  shake  hands  instead. 
Be  as  happy  as  you  can,  for  I  have  heard  sad  news  from 
South  Africa,  which  news  probably  sent  you  home  so 
early,  Basil,  did  it?" 

"Yes,  that  sent  me  home,"  the  master  replied  very 
slowly.  ' '  The  official  telegram  was  immediately  sent  on, 
and  of  course  I  left  them  at  once." 

"Not  my  brother?"  cried  Kathleen,  turning  pale. 

' '  Or  mine  ? ' '  asked  Nancy,  whiter  still.  For  this  was 
the  autumn  of  1899. 

"Then  mine?"  Richard  quickly  added.  "Gerald — 
the  prisoners?  No?  Nor  Chesney?  Then  we  are  safe. 
You  have  no  brother  at  the  front,  Mayne?" 

"Mercifully  not,  though  Kathleen  has  two.  But 
Nancy  and  you  each  lose  a  friend,  and  we  a  kinsman. 
Chesney  had  a  telegram;  poor  Olivia  read  it.  He  was 
one  of  the  Naval  Brigade,  you  remember." 

' '  Ronald  Musgrave.  I  am  sorry, ' '  Nancy  said,  under 
her  breath.  But  Rosny  reeled  as  if  under  a  blow,  and 
Kathleen's  soft  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

' '  We  were  children  together, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  was  the 
youngest  of  all  the  cousins,  and  sat  on  his  knee.  Poor 
Olivia!" 

Then  the  knell  began  to  boom  from  the  tower  and 
the  vicar  raised  his  hat  and  bent  his  head  in  silent  prayer. 
The  master  raised  his  hat,  too,  but  the  thought  upper- 
most in  his  mind  was  of  Nancy's  composed  reception  of 
the  tidings. 

The  robin's  song  shrilled  out  again  upon  the  fading 
day  in  a  long,  clear  warble,  a  little  autumnal  shiver 
went  through  the  sere  trees,  and  some  fallen  leaves,  dead 
and  dry,  leaped  up  and  began  that  hurried,  anxious 
rush,  with  sighing  rustle  and  terrified  bound,  that  re- 
minded Dante  of  lost  souls  driven  to  the  Styx.  The 
robin  sang  more  and  more  joyously,  and  the  declining 
sun  shot  long  lances  of  dusty  gold  through  the  thinned 
trees  and  steeped  in  richer  radiance  the  weathered  face 
of  the  tower,  whence  the  knell  dropped  heavily  at  slow 


502  RICHARD    ROSNY 

intervals,  aromatic  scents  of  box  and  bay  and  faded  leaf 
stole  upon  the  air,  and  Rosny  left  them  with  a  heavy 
heart  to  tell  the  news  to  Evelyn.  ' '  He  was  our  friend, ' ' 
he  said  as  he  went. 

Then  Herbert  and  Kathleen  drew  together  and 
turned  down  a  sun-shot  alley,  talking  in  low  voices, 
and  the  master  and  Nancy  were  left  alone  by  the  sun- 
dial. 

"Forgive  me,  Annis,"  the  master  said,  then,  very 
humbly.  "Heaven  knows  I  have  been  wretched  enough 
to  glut  the  most  insatiate  vengeance.  I  ought  to  have 
known  you  incapable  of  that." 

"People  should  trust,"  Nancy  said  severely,  her 
deep,  clear  eyes  shining  like  agates,  her  gaze  untroubled 
by  the  wild  appeal  in  the  master's. 

"I  was  at  the  pier-head  at  St.  Ann's  that  night,"  he 
added.  "What  could  I  think?" 

"That  a  good  deal  of  fog  was  about,  surely." 

"Will  you  take  me  after  all,  Nancy,  for  good  and 
all?"  the  master  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice. 

"Not  if  the  fog  is  to  be  lifted." 

"I  accept  the  fog,  but  I  implore  the  consent,"  was 
the  fervid  rejoinder. 

"Come;  that  sounds  better,"  Nancy  observed  with 
impersonal  encouragement. 

' '  You  know,  dearest  Miss  Rosny,  you  must  long  have 
known,  that  you  are  the  center  of  all  my  thoughts — all 
my  hopes,  all  my  desires " 

"Ah!  we  seem  to  be  getting  on  now.  Quite  the 
lyric  touch." 

"You  are  heartless,  Nancy,  hard  and  heartless;  you 
only  mock  me.  Why  will  you  trample  on  a  deep  and 
honest  and  abiding  passion?  Is  that  right  or  wise? 
You  must  have  understood,  you  must  have  seen  long 
and  long  ago,  all  that  I  felt  for  you,  but  had  no  right 
to  put  into  words?" 

"Oh,  I  am  not  stone  blind.  I  can  see  the  time  on  the 
sun-dial.  Time  to  go  home,"  she  said,  slowly  straighten- 


AUTUMN   SUNSET  503 

ing  herself  and  turning  away  toward  the  house,  leaving 
him  petrified  with  amazement  for  some  seconds. 

' '  What  do  you  mean  1 "  he  asked,  overtaking  her  with 
quick  strides.  ' '  Am  I  nothing  to  you,  Nancy ;  nothing  at 
all,  after  all?" 

"Who  knows?  You  were  a  good  deal  to  me  once. 
But  friendship  implies  trust." 

"And  will  you  fling  me  away  for  a  mere  foolish 
pique?" 

"Yes.  You  let  me  go  for  a  mere  stupid  suspi- 
cion. ' ' 

"But  won't  you  forgive  me?  Won't  you  think  bet- 
ter of  me?" 

"Who  knows?  I  am  a  woman,  not  a  door-mat.  I 
might,  therefore,  be  won,  but  not  in  this  take-me-or-leave- 
me-bef ore-the-train-starts  fashion.  My  address  in  future 
will,  I  hope,  be  Airedale  College.  I  have  many  claims 
on  me,  Basil,"  she  said,  turning  back  and  abandoning 
her  tone  of  banter,  "I  am  not  in  a  position  to  marry, 
and  shall  not  be  for  a  long  time — perhaps  never.  Prac- 
tically never.  So  let  us  be  open  and  have  no  more  fool- 
ing or  beating  about  the  bush." 

"Dear  Nancy,  I  am  ready  to  be  responsible  for  all 
your  claims, ' '  he  said  earnestly.  ' '  I  will  take  every  care 
of  you  and  yours  as  long  as  I  live." 

' '  Ah !  but  can  you  ?  And  could  I  let  you  ?  No ;  but 
if  you  care  to  reconquer  my  friendship — which  is  worth 
having — good.  I  was  on  the  verge  of  having  a  great 
regard  for  you  once,  do  you  know.  Then,  I  found  you 
fickle,  suspicious,  or  rather  I  didn't  find  you  at  all,  or 
that  great  regard  either.  But  we  used  to  have  pleasant 
disputes — chatter  about  Shelley  and  the  differential  cal- 
culus ;  arguments  on  Euripides,  female  suffrage,  and  the 
limits  of  free-will.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  say  I 
was  not  a  marrying  woman.  I  thought  I  looked  it.  Be- 
sides, I  didn't  think  it." 

"Then  you  were  playing  with  me,  after  all?" 

"Nay.    Fate  was  playing  with  me.     Chatter  about 


504  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Shelley  and  the  fourth  dimension  is  pleasant — some- 
times. We  may  have  more  of  it  some  day.  But  my 
father  is  an  invalid  and  has  nothing,  and  my  brothers 
have  yet  to  make  their  way,  and  I  am  to  be  classical 
lecturer  at  Airedale,  and  have  no  time  for  feminine 
weaknesses. ' ' 

"Your  people  shall  be  my  people,  your  burdens  my 
burdens. ' ' 

"Never!    That  is  not  a  man's  way." 

"Yes  it  is;  it's  my  way.  Nancy,  I  will  bide  my  time, 
but  I  will  have  you — you  and  no  other — and  all  your 
responsibilities  to  boot.  I  am  not  a  youth  exactly,  and  my 
personal  fascinations  are,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  limited. 
But  I  mean  to  win  you.  You  are  everything  to  me, 
and  I  must  have  you.  I  never  thought  to  be  in  love  at 
my  time  of  life,  but  I  am — desperately,  though  you  may 
not  believe  it.  You  are  the  only  woman  I  ever  knew 
capable  of  understanding — anything.  You — you  are  a 
fine  Greek  scholar,  and  the  men  who  surpass  you  in  the 
higher  mathematics  can  be  counted.  You  have  a  thor- 
ough grasp  of  the  science  of  history,  you  can  sift  evi- 
dence, you  have  an  intuitive  sense  of  the  value  of 
recorded  fact  and  tradition.  Yet  you  are  not  wholly 
deficient  in  feminine  grace  and  charm." 

' '  At  this  rate,  I  can  hardly  be  expected  to  have  much 
modesty  left." 

' '  Ah !  but  you  have.  You  never  think  of  yourself  at 
all.  That  is  your  crowning  charm.  Nancy,  I  have  had 
no  leisure  to  study  the  arts  by  which  women's  hearts 
are  won " 

"Well,  if  you  think  barefaced  flattery  is  one " 

"I  wish  I  had.  But  I  can  not  think  you  entirely 
indifferent  to  me." 

"No?" 

"Perhaps  you  will  think  all  this  over,  Nancy,  and 
decide  in  my  favor  at  last?" 

"Have  Airedale  lecturers  leisure  to  study  the  arts 
by  which  female  hearts  are  assailed,  and  weigh  the 


AUTUMN    SUNSET  505 

merits  of  the  various  besiegers?  The  notion  is  prepos- 
terous. Let  us  go  in  to  tea." 

' '  Think  it  over, ' '  he  repeated,  pressing  her  reluctant 
hands  in  both  his.  "You  would  like  Goldenose  almost 
as  much  as  you  would  adorn  it,"  he  added,  and  she  ob- 
served that  the  eyes  behind  the  glasses  were  clear  and 
bright  and  full  of  honest  feeling.  "What  an  influence 
you  would  have  upon  those  boys!  What  a  paradise  it 
would  be  for  me!  Oh,  I  will  hope  and  wait  and  hope. 
But  don't  make  it  too  long,  Nan.  Not  too  long." 

Nancy  looked  at  him  not  unkindly,  and  smiled  slowly 
and  gravely  as  she  stood  in  the  last  ray  of  sun,  but  find- 
ing nothing  to  say,  turned  in  silence  and  went  through 
the  open  windows  into  the  firelit  drawing-room,  where 
Kathleen  was  pouring  out  tea  and  Herbert  delivering 
himself  of  many  wise  utterances  on  the  hearth-rug,  and 
the  knell  having  tolled  its  last  heavy  stroke,  the  song  of 
robins  and  twitter  of  belated  swallows  was  clearly  heard. 

"I  like  these  early  autumn  twilights,"  Herbert  said, 
after  a  little  general  silence  that  was  not  without  con- 
tent. 

Rosny  took  the  shortest  way  home,  and  opened  the 
gate  with  that  warm  and  intimate  sense  of  comfort  and 
peace  that  never  failed  him  at  sight  of  the  cottage. 
Strange  that  hearts  should  cling  to  brown  tiles  and 
weathered  brick  walls  in  this  tenacious  way.  The  scent 
of  the  clematis  tangled  about  the  windows  was  a  voice 
from  the  fairyland  of  infancy,  the  chimney 's  blue  smoke 
curl  against  the  lime-top's  autumnal  gold  a  breath  of 
romance,  the  mignonette's  sweetness  a  caress;  the  win- 
dows shining  in  warm  sun,  the  trees,  the  garden,  the 
fields,  and  the  sea — all  had  kind  and  welcoming  faces  for 
him ;  no  other  spot  on  earth  could  have  the  same  lasting 
lifelong  charm.  A  lemon  verbena  ran  over  a  sunny  wall 
by  the  door  and  was  rarely  passed  without  a  casual  touch 
of  its  scented  leaf,  though  it  died  down  with  the  first 
frost  every  autumn ;  it  was  older  than  his  oldest  memory ; 
its  fragrance  held  all  the  poetry  of  life. 


506  RICHARD   ROSNY 

Evelyn  came  from  between  the  leafy  lime  pillars  with 
a  springy  step  and  bright  face.  "Come  and  see  the 
bees,"  she  cried.  "Seth  says  the  honey  will  be  very 
fine,  and  he'll  take  it  to-morrow.  I  am  so  glad  I  took 
to  bee-keeping.  Richard,  darling,  let  us  have  a  vine- 
house,  and  grow  early  potatoes  and  spring  flowers  in  it. 
Seth  says  he  could  knock  one  up  for  next  to  nothing  with 
some  seasoned  wood  he  has,  at  odd  times  this  winter." 

He  found  himself  dragged  unceremoniously  through 
the  garden  to  the  bee-butts,  a  velvet  cheek  pressed  against 
his  arm,  thence  to  the  last  clutch  of  chickens  running 
about  the  feet  of  a  clucking,  stately  hen  in  the  meadow, 
and  lastly  to  the  bench  under  the  lime-tree  where  the 
minuet  was  once  danced  in  the  moonlight. 

"Baby!"  he  growled  at  last.  "Well,  child,  well! 
You  don't  ask  my  news?" 

"Dick,  dear,  I  don't  like  to  think  of  the  cause  of 
it,"  she  replied  sadly.  "That  I  should  have  brought  all 
that  upon  Nancy,  who  saved  me.  Was  she  very  glad?" 

"She  was  very  glad,  Evelyn.    So  was  Basil  Mayne." 

"Basil  Mayne?  I  used  to  think  there  was  something 
between  those  two." 

"There  was.  But  whispering  tongues,  Evie,  whis- 
pering tongues!  Well,  it's  all  right  now.  He  under- 
stands at  last." 

Her  face  went  down  on  his  arm  with  a  little  moan. 
"And  Nancy,  dear  Nancy,  did  all  that  for  me,"  she 
whispered.  "  Oh !  tell  me  all  that  passed,  Richard — all. ' ' 

' '  That  was  all,  and  it 's  all  right.  But  Mayne  should 
have  trusted  her.  She's  worth  ten  of  him." 

"She's  worth  everything  and  everybody.  But  you 
are  not  glad,  dearest,"  she  said,  looking  up  and  struck 
by  the  sadness  in  his  face.  "And  the  knell  is  tolling. 
What  is  it?" 

"Come  into  the  house,"  he  said,  rising  from  the 
bench  and  giving  her  his  hand. 

' '  Who  is  it  1 "  she  whispered,  when  they  were  in  the 
oak  parlor. 


AUTUMN   SUNSET  507 

He  placed  a  hand  on  each  of  her  shoulders,  and 
looked  deeply  and  searchingly  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  Musgrave, ' '  he  said  slowly  at  last,  and  her  face 
flushed  and  paled  again,  and  her  eyes  fell.  "He  was 
training  the  4.7  gun  on  to  the  Boer  position  when  he 
fell." 

"Killed?"  in  a  low  whisper.  No  tear,  no  quiver  be- 
neath the  pressure  of  his  strong  hands;  only  a  grave, 
awed  silence  after  the  question  his  face  answered. 

"Did  you  see — his  sister?"  she  asked  presently. 

"No;  I  had  it  from  the  Maynes.  Chesney  had  told 
them." 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  over  darken- 
ing fields  to  a  sea  that  was  deep  pink  under  a  band  of 
paler  pink  sky,  saffron  immediately  above  the  sea-rim. 
Shadows  filled  the  room,  but  pale  rose-bloom  from  the 
sky  touched  her  face;  her  pure  profile  showed  clear 
against  the  garden's  blurred  and  darkening  color,  her 
face  was  still  and  thoughtful. 

Presently  she  came  back  to  Richard  and  buried  her 
face  in  his  arm. 

"It  is  all  so  far  off  and  dreamlike,"  she  sighed,  "as 
if  it  had  never  been." 

"Best  so,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

"But  you?"  she  faltered. 

"He  was  my  dear  friend,  Evelyn." 

The  knell  had  stopped  by  this  time,  and  they  could 
hear  the  sea  murmuring  faintly  through  the  pink  twi- 
light like  a  friend's  voice.  Then  Evelyn  raised  her  face, 
wet  with  tears,  and  drew  a  foreign  letter  from  her 
pocket. 

"From  Gerald,"  she  said,  and  going  to  the  smolder- 
ing fire,  roused  it  to  a  cheery  blaze  that  filled  the  room 
with  dancing  light. 

"Poor,  dear  old  chap;  he  has  forgiven  me  at  last!" 
he  said,  joyously  tearing  it  open  to  read  in  the  firelight. 

THE    END 

(2) 


A    000118723     6 


